Lord of Falcon Ridge

by Catherine Coulter

  “Papa is perfect,” Aglida said, reaching for Rorik.

  “She will get over this,” Mirana said and handed their daughter to Rorik.

  “Nay, she will be just like her mother and worship me forever.”

  She gave him a shove, then kissed him. “I will surely make you pay for your humor, my lord.”

  “Aye, you will. You always do. It pleases me. Now I see that you tossed my shirt aside like a bone you chewed on. I only have one chest filled with blue shirts. I cannot afford to have you toss one aside.”

  “Aye, it’s just like a bone Mama’s chewed on,” Aglida said. “I’ll sew you another shirt, Papa. It will be as beautiful as Mama’s, mayhap better.”

  “Mama’s what, sweeting?”

  “Rorik, be quiet. Come, Aglida, ’tis time you slept.”

  All had watched the play between the master and mistress. All heard the laughter, saw the smiles. All knew they were doing it apurpose, to ease everyone. It worked. A woman giggled when her husband patted her buttocks. A child yelled at another to throw her the leather ball. Conversation became louder. The children began playing again. Their parents began speaking of sleep.

  Rain crashed against the sod and wood-shingled roof, making the big wooden beams creak and moan, sounding, Old Firren said, like a battle between the gods, and it would be men who would lose.

  It went on and on, lessening for long periods of time, then beginning again. It was near midnight, all the Hawkfell people still awake, the children at last asleep, waiting and listening.

  The door burst open and Hafter ran in. “A ship,” he shouted. “There’s a ship in the harbor and it’s breaking up against the shore.”

  The men were out of the longhouse in moments, running through the wide palisade doors and down the narrow path that led to the beach.

  Rorik ran out onto the dock, the rain slashing against his face, so much of it, he felt he would drown if he opened his mouth. Great slashes of lightning rent the sky. The warship was heaving to its side, the great sea serpent’s head dipping beneath the huge waves.

  He heard men shouting, saw them desperately trying to row the ship to shore, but it sent them spinning. Then it seemed as if the sea, in a furious spurt, shoved the ship onto the shore so hard that several men were flung overboard. Rorik shouted to his men. They were at the ship in moments, pulling the men from the water, watching others gathering their chests before they realized that they were ashore and would remain there. For a moment, several of the men simply stood on the swaying ship, just staring at Rorik and his people, disbelieving that they had survived. Very soon they would fear they’d only survived the storm to be killed here. He strode forward, shouting above the noise of the rain and thunder, “I am Rorik and this is Hawkfell Island. We won’t harm you. Come, you’re safe now.”

  Still the men hung back. They could be easily butchered. They had knives at their belts, swords, helmets, and shields in their sea chests.

  “Come,” Rorik said again, knowing well their thoughts, knowing he would distrust any unknown man who didn’t try to kill him on a strange island in the middle of a storm.

  The men were looking at each other and he knew they realized they were helpless. Suddenly, a woman jumped from the ship onto the beach. A woman! Rorik dashed the rain from his face only to hear her call out, “Lord Rorik, it is you, isn’t it? Thank you for your welcome. We believed ourselves lost but the gods brought us to you.”

  Then another man jumped after her, shouting, “Don’t listen to her, she lies, she’s my prisoner. I am marrying her, don’t listen to her.”

  This was surely strange, Rorik thought, wondering what the gods had vomited onto his island’s shore. He reached the woman, realized she was very young, and said, “I have no idea what is happening here, but don’t be afraid.”

  “Don’t touch her!”

  Rorik looked at the man, who would have looked ready to kill him if he hadn’t been so pathetic and frightened. “Who are you?”

  The man drew himself up as if suddenly remembering that he wasn’t a drowned rat. “I am Ragnor of York, son of Olric.” He even tried for a swagger. “I will take over now.”

  Rorik could have taken the man’s neck between his hands and choked the life out of him in moments. “You are in no condition to make demands or give orders. Get your people together and we will go to the longhouse.”

  “Aye, my lord,” another man said to Ragnor. “We are safe now and we owe this man our thanks.”

  “I’ll cut out your damned tongue, Kerek,” Ragnor said. “As for you,” he yelled after Chessa, who’d walked to stand beside this Rorik, “you will do nothing that angers me, do you understand? You will tell this man no lies. You will remain silent and meek.”

  Chessa said nothing at all. She pulled sodden strands of hair from her face and looked up at the rain-soaked man who towered above her. She stood close enough so that he blocked some of the rain from her face. “The captain, Torric, is injured. I believe his leg is broken from the mast falling on him. He is a good man. Please help him.”

  Rorik turned and said, “Hafter, take two men and get Captain Torric. Mirana will see to him. Now, you appear to know me. What is your name?”

  “I am Chessa, and you’re Lord Rorik of Hawkfell Island?”

  “Aye.”

  She gave him a brilliant wet smile. “Do you remember a young girl named Eze, daughter of Hormuze, the greatest sorcerer of all time?”

  Rorik stared down at her, looking closely at her, studying her. The last time he’d seen Eze she’d been only ten years old, a serious child who’d shown no fear of him or of his men. He’d used her to free his wife, Mirana, from Hormuze. Now she was grown and by some miracle she’d been thrown onto Hawkfell Island. He said slowly, “By all the gods, this storm will go down in memory.”

  “You are a beautiful man, my lord, but still you are not as beautiful as my papa.”

  Rorik threw back his head and laughed deeply and nearly choked on the water that swept into his mouth. “And just how is your beautiful papa?” Hormuze had disguised himself as an old graybeard, looking every bit as old as the king of Ireland. He’d killed Sitric and taken his place. He’d wanted Mirana simply because she’d looked so much like his long-dead wife, Naphta. But he’d had to settle for Sira, Rorik’s cousin. He’d made his own prophecy come true—that Hormuze the magician had wrought magic to make the old king young again. It was now a favorite tale in many countries. All believed it, for the young Sitric was proof.

  “He has four sons and he still loves Sira, more’s the pity.”

  “Four sons? By Thor’s toes, he doesn’t rest, does he?”

  “She’s pregnant again.”

  “Ah, so she’s still a witch?”

  “She’s more than a witch, she’s—”

  But Ragnor refused to go quietly. “Don’t listen to her, damn you! She’s lying. She’s naught but my wife, naught but a slut, naught—”

  “What is going on here?” Rorik said, looking down at the lovely woman before him.

  “I will tell you,” Ragnor said, shoving Chessa behind him. “And then you will obey my orders. I am Ragnor of York and you are nothing but the peasant who clings to this pile of rocks and mud.”

  Rorik said to the man Kerek, “Who is this fool to say that my island is a pile of rocks?”

  “His mind is disordered,” Kerek said. “Come,” he said to Ragnor, “I will assist you to Lord Rorik’s longhouse. Your wits are disordered from the storm and the mead.”

  “I won’t leave her alone with him. He just might try to steal her, he might try to rape her. He’s a Viking and a warrior. He’s up to no good, he’s—”

  Rorik shoved his fist into Ragnor’s jaw. The man collapsed where he stood. He said to Kerek, “I wonder why no one’s murdered him yet. Take him to the longhouse. Follow my line of men up the path. When he awakens, mayhap he’ll come to understand the way of things.”

  Chessa said, shaking her head, “I doubt he’s capa
ble.”

  Mirana rose and wiped her hands on a linen cloth. “He will be all right. Utta and I straightened Torric’s leg and bound it between two thin slabs of timber. Entti gave him very strong mead to drink. Old Alna cackled over him, said he was a lovely lad, and that made him smile even though she drooled on him a bit. He will sleep for many hours now.”

  “Thank you,” Chessa said. “Where is this Old Alna?”

  “Over there by the fire pit, picking her two remaining teeth,” Mirana said. “Just look at you, Eze, all grown up, and so beautiful. I hadn’t thought to ever see you again, truth be told. Aye, and you’ve grown up very well.”

  “I would say she’s more than beautiful.”

  Chessa laughed up at Lord Rorik, who’d come to stand beside his wife. “You say that, my lord, because I look so very much like her. My papa was right about that. I am sorry he took you, Mirana, and all because you looked like my mother. I vow I would have rather had you for a stepmother than that miserable Sira. Come, Lord Rorik, tell the truth. It is because I look like Mirana that you think me comely.”

  “You think me so lacking in clear sight? You’re very little like Mirana. Her hair is a rather dull black, not all shiny like yours, and her eyes are the color of the mainland salt marsh grass, all sort of a wet green, while yours, Eze—”

  “Why do you call her that name?” It was Ragnor and he wasn’t drunk now. He was stroking his hand over his jaw as he strode up to Rorik as if he were lord, his chin thrust out, looking like naught but a sullen boy in a man’s body. “It’s an ugly name. It sounds foreign. Why did you call her that name?”

  Chessa said quickly, “It’s a nickname from my childhood. You see, Ragnor, Lord Rorik met me when I was very young. He will soon come to call me Chessa, a name very popular amongst the Irish Dalriada.”

  “Chessa,” Rorik said. “It’s a lovely name. Lovelier than that ugly name of my wife’s—Mirana. It sounds like some sort of fish in the North Sea. Perhaps she isn’t too aged for me to give her another name.”

  Mirana poked her elbow in her husband’s ribs. “He plays dangerous games, does my lord,” she said. “But so long as he wears the blue shirts I sew for him that perfectly match the blue of his eyes and he doesn’t gain flesh, I will not fling him into the sea, at least I won’t fling him in during this storm. He isn’t a strong swimmer and I would doubtless have to leap in after him to save him.”

  “I don’t understand what any of you are talking about. This woman is insulting this man and he insults her back and you’re all laughing and it’s stupid. Listen to me, Chessa, none of this matters, not that they knew you when you had this foolish Eze name, nothing. You’re going to marry me and you won’t tell this man any of your lies.”

  “I thought you said she was your wife and a slut and—”

  “Hold your tongue,” Ragnor said, and immediately shut his mouth when he felt a large calloused hand close over his shoulder.

  “What did you say, little worm?” Hafter said close to Ragnor’s ear, and then he squeezed, feeling the bones crunching together.

  Ragnor yelped.

  “He will learn manners quickly with such instruction,” Rorik said. “Release him, Hafter. You would think that he would remember my fist in his jaw for at least an hour. He is too young to have such flaws in his memory. It will lead to his death if he isn’t careful.”

  “His brain was drowned in the storm,” Hafter said, squeezed one last time, and shoved Ragnor forward. “If he ever had one of any size at all.” Ragnor managed to keep his balance, just barely.

  “You mangy little bastard,” Hafter said after him. “No wonder the Danelaw will soon fall to the Saxons, what with the likes of you holding the reins of power. Is it true you’re the son of Olric?”

  “Aye, and soon that old man will be well dead. Then I will return and kill all of you.”

  Kerek said, “Now, my lord, you lose your temper for naught. These good people have saved us. Our warship is destroyed. We are cast upon their kindness. I beg you to moderate your speech, to accept their generous bounty with smiles and gratitude.”

  Ragnor cursed and strode away. Chessa heard Old Alna cackle.

  “My lord.”

  “Gunleik, how many did we save?”

  “Seventeen, Rorik. This man Kerek told me that nine men have been lost. Still, it’s not bad, given the fury of this storm.”

  “I remember you,” Chessa said, looking up at the grizzled man, not that old, but the years he’d spent as a warrior were etched deep in his face. “You were already at Clontarf when Lord Rorik brought me there to exchange me for Mirana. You helped Lord Rorik.”

  “Aye, I did. Who are you?”

  “I’m that little girl, Eze. All of you saved my papa.”

  Gunleik stared at his friend and lord. “This is passing strange, Rorik.”

  “Aye, but you’ll get used to it. Her name is Chessa now. Ah, Kerek, go see Entti. Mayhap Entti will give Ragnor something warm and tasty, something that will make his bowels rampage. Then he can enjoy the storm on many trips to the privy.”

  Chessa laughed aloud. “Oh, goodness, that would be splendid, Hafter. Who is Entti? Does she know all about the malle root?”

  “Entti is my wife,” Hafter said, and there was such pride in his voice that Chessa wanted to meet the woman who’d inspired such feeling in a man. “Ah, here she is. Sweeting, have you a potion that would improve the manners of one of our guests? Chessa here says the malle root is passing good.”

  The woman had magnificent dark brown hair that swayed down her back as she walked, thick lustrous hair with ribbons threaded through it. She was carrying a small babe who was asleep, his head against her shoulder, his thumb in his mouth. “You mean our magnificent lord from York? He is a paltry creature. He yells to all who will listen that she is his wife. Are you?”

  “No. Actually, he kidnapped me. Were it not for the storm, were it not for Kerek just chancing to see the island, were it not for you, all of us would be dead now. Or, if we had survived, then I would have to find a way to escape him once we reached York. It’s all complicated, because there’s William and I don’t want to marry him either, but my father negotiated the wedding treaty.”

  “William?” Rorik said. “Duke Rollo’s son?”

  Chessa nodded.

  “William is a very nice man,” Mirana said, frowning at Chessa. “It’s true that he’s still very much in love with his wife, who died, but he would keep faith with you—”

  “Ha,” Entti said, handing Hafter the sleeping babe. “That means nothing, Mirana. William’s too morose not to keep faith. A girl shouldn’t have to wed a man in love with another woman even if she is dead.”

  “At least he isn’t too old,” Rorik said.

  “He hasn’t lost his teeth or grown a fat belly,” Mirana said.

  Chessa watched Hafter grab his wife’s hand and drag her away. Entti leaned down, bit his hand, then, to Chessa’s astonishment, she kissed that same hand where she’d bitten it. Mirana was laughing, Rorik was just shaking his head. “You are to marry William,” he said, “yet Ragnor kidnapped you. Gunleik is right. All of this is strange. What do you wish me to do, Chessa?”

  She looked toward Ragnor, who was seated between two of his men, the three of them speaking in low voices. “He’s a snake,” she said. “Treacherous. But he’s also a bully and a coward. Do you think perhaps I could kill him?”

  “You what?”

  “She said, my lord,” Mirana said calmly, “that she would like to kill him.”

  “Well, that’s different. I thought she wanted to mill him like flour for bread. Now, wife, I believe everyone is dry and has found a place to sleep. I see Old Alna is licking her chops over that man Kerek who’s speaking to her. He is Ragnor’s protector?”

  “I suppose so. I wish he wasn’t, since he is a good man.”

  “I thought you liked him. He seems a steady man.”

  “Aye, he’s the man who kidnapped me. He did hit me, b
ut he had to, else I would have brought him low. He was only doing his duty.”

  “Naturally then you would be overcome with goodwill toward him,” Rorik said, and a golden eyebrow shot up. “You will sleep with my wife and I will remain out here with all the men. I want to ensure that this Ragnor doesn’t try to kill us in our sleep.”

  “He’s such a worm,” Chessa said. “I wonder how I could have ever believed otherwise.”

  “This,” Mirana said, taking Chessa’s arm, “is a story I look forward to hearing in all its splendid detail.”

  “Aye,” Rorik said, patting Chessa’s shoulder, “And I want to know all about King Sitric, that old man magically made young again by Hormuze. Mirana, take Aglida and the boys and put them to bed.”

  “Aye, my dear lord,” Mirana said, and gave him a smile that was identical to Chessa’s. Rorik just stared at the two women, standing there side by side, their black hair thick and curling slightly, no red streaks, just the midnight black of the sky outside in the storm. So many memories overtook him in that moment. Life remained ever interesting, he thought, as he took a woolen blanket and joined Hafter near the fire pit.

  7

  7

  THE MORNING WAS warm and balmy, the sky a bright blue, scattered with white clouds. The water was utterly calm; the waves washed gently onto the shore. Kerzog, a huge mongrel whose tongue was as long as a longboat plank, Rorik was used to saying, raced after the receding waves, then barked loudly as the sea rushed back in, many times curling around his hind paws. Rorik breathed in deeply. “Were it not for all the broken branches and refuse tossed onto the shore, I wouldn’t know that just two days ago a storm tried to tear us apart.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” Gunleik said as he leaned down to pick up a piece of oddly shaped driftwood, thinking he could carve something nice for his wife, Erna. A dolphin, perhaps. “What think you of the warship, Rorik?”