THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “I shall give you that same heart.”

  A shudder crept up Malice’s spine. All this talk of swords and hearts was unnerving. What if there was some dreadful ritual she was in the dark about?

  “Your sword, I shall of course, hold in trust for our son, Balder. Are we all gathered? If not, step forward, stand about.”

  “You know, I don’t like this.” Gentle’s whisper did nothing to calm the rapid beating of Malice’s heart. “Where were you anyway?”

  “No talking over there, a tongue can be sacrificed as easily as a goat.”

  Actually, that Sin Gudrunsson couldn’t see what kind of woman he was allying himself to was as beyond her as the moon, the stars, which was why shame stung her cheeks when a silly noise escaped her throat. That he couldn’t see how bad she was for him, in every way. Or was he just past caring because Snotra waved her hand and snapped her fingers?

  “Father . . . father, the sword. Give it to Ari if you can’t manage. He will offer it for you.”

  Obviously the woman’s impatience rose like a wave, such a tidal one she nearly offered the sword herself. Sin Gudrunsson not only stepped forward, he extended his hands to clasp hers—one of them anyway. The wheat bouquet proved a little difficult to grasp. Snotra’s smile, her little gasp were ones of pure pleasure.

  Gentle tutted. “Doesn’t that make you—”

  “It doesn’t anything.” Malice had to say that, although her eyes burned in her head. “We’ve been told to be quiet.”

  Mother of God why was she still here? Why should she want to be with a man like this? Have wanted to come through time and space for him, now she saw it was a choice and she could control it? Icy drops formed along her forehead. They formed across her heart too. What had happened on that island was no more than grains on that particular stretch of sand. It was always going to come to this. He was welcome to Snotra. Her only conflict would be if she didn’t wake up in her bed at Haggersly Hall, or wherever tomorrow, and she had to kiss him to do it.

  “Well, it should be you. What’s he thinking about? Taking that sword from Ari . . . look at him. Unless it’s to cut her bleedin’ throat.”

  How could she look? To look would be her undoing. And yet she did look. Her gaze clung to the gold sheen of his hair, to his sea-sprayed tunic, the leather bands encasing his wrists. It did not help that in that instant he tilted his head slightly and for the briefest of seconds his gaze met hers—while still clasping the sword hilt.

  Now, as the sword tip met the heavens, trailing fiery tails of midnight sun in its wake, the ground careened. She was going to lose him, without having to descend to the tiresome necessity of kissing him. She clenched her fists. Going to . . .

  Well, she thought she was but even as she braced, he lowered his gaze from the scarlet sunset. The whirling ground to a halt. Why? Because he looked at her? He needn’t. Not when Snotra, flaming in a bright circlet of candles was who he really wanted. And had made such love to Malice? Such love as even now it stole from her to think of. Heart, soul, breath.

  It wasn’t anything to do with that, was it? Nothing more than simple lust, that his gaze met hers. She really must get out of here by whatever means, especially now the sword thudded into the earth, no doubt having been blessed by the Viking gods themselves, Odin, Freya, the rest. How these deities must be splitting their sides. At her.

  Having stepped forward, Ari placed his hand on the juddering hilt. “The ring, Sin.”

  “Ring?”

  “That thing you need, Potlicker. If you’re going to marry her.”

  A lump formed in Malice’s throat. A ring? That thing he couldn’t possibly have. Not here. Not right now. Of course he could fetch it if there was one but the explosion this would surely engender from Snotra would put an end to this charade.

  Ari cleared his throat. “On your sword tip.”

  Malice lowered her burning gaze. The insult it heaped on injury watching this man, this man she’d come back for pretend to fumble in his tunic was . . . something she must bear. Must raise her chin. Must look at. Even if it was only pretence on his part. So must it be on hers to raise her eyelashes and stare as if it was no odds. After all, he couldn’t have that ring. Who did he think he was kidding?

  It was a good act though, especially when something pinged from his tunic onto the pebbles, inches from where she stood. As for him getting down on his hands and knees . . . that was an even better act. Snotra’s composure was nothing short of a miracle. The kind visited on the ancient world.

  But then, in some ways, this was the ancient world and maybe that why something glittered between his fingers. Gold. Round. There was a ring. How could there be a ring? Had that come through time and space too? Would he be down on his hands and knees, having yanked it from his tunic if it had? Right beside her toes too? No. He needn’t stare up at her like that as if he honestly didn’t expect to see her there.

  Malice fought the rush of blood to her head. The indignation swept like a wave. Tears formed behind her eyelashes. Had she, or had she not washed his tunic, his breeches too, on that island? Did she, or did she not know the pouches were empty? How? Because checking pouches was one of her many accomplishments. Not her finest. No, that was exhorting a hundred guineas to wreck a marriage. But making sure a customer was good for that amount was second nature to her.

  So? If the ring hadn’t been there then, it had been purchased, or stolen since, which meant he had returned here with every intention of marrying Snotra.

  A step backwards was all it took to get away from him. A step backwards to get away from here. Even as the ground swung, she must let it. Now was not the time to think, that perhaps he had got that ring somewhere but she herself had disappeared from that island. In his eyes, the ones he raised to her now, she’d left him. And he hated to be second best. It was what he’d been all his life. But it wasn’t just that, was it? It was almost as if he didn’t want the entanglement with her. Always picking her out a fire, a boat, a convent. As if he knew deep down her situation wasn’t quite right.

  He scrambled to his feet, towering there above her, so she was dizzily aware of the hungry ache in his eyes. An ache that said he didn’t want to marry Snotra but the corner the damned fool had boxed himself into was tight. And she knew in that second that she must speak, no matter the cost, no matter the consequence. She parted her lips.

  “Drottin . . . I . . .” she said and landed with a jarring thud in a fusty coat-of-armor-lined corridor.

  Pushing open the bedroom door, Malice didn’t care if Cyril was with George. He was, but they were dressing for dinner.

  “Kiss me.”

  She didn’t hesitate. In fact she so little hesitated, she sprung across the floor. As she did he removed his hands from his cravat with a deep sigh as if it irritated him to see her there.

  “Malice . . .”

  “No, Cyril. I mean it.”

  He flicked his cuff. A bored flick that said better than words how he felt about this. “Malice, you can’t keep doing this. Can’t you see? You’re making George jealous.”

  “I’m making George jealous?”

  Making George jealous? Did he want her to laugh? Fortunately she knew, she knew now, how wrong they would have been together. If she had Aunt Carter’s teapot here she just might even forgive him for taking it.

  “Yes. Yes you damn well are. So look here—”

  Reaching out she grasped his cravat. “Well, I really don’t care, Cyril, now—”

  “No really.” He pulled back, doing his best to adjust the knot. “George doesn’t like you here after you hit him with that jug.”

  “Troll’s teeth. It would never have happened if he hadn’t opened that damned door.”

  “Troll’s teeth? How interesting. What is that? A Viking oath?”

  “Cyril . . .�
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  “As for me, why can’t you just try to get along with your Viking, because you can’t keep making a habit of this, you know?”

  What?

  Was it so wise to take issue? If he required coaxing, shouldn’t she do it? Time was short. The wedding might have taken place by now. And this . . . this wasn’t just for her. “Do you think I want to?”

  It was true. In that second she didn’t. George could fume as much as he wanted to in that ancient chair by the fire, the one that only looked fit for burning. Burning? Oh good God, she must get back to Norway. She must at least tell the truth so Sin Gudrunsson knew she hadn’t left him, that she would die sooner than offer an affront to his pride.

  She needed to find true love or she was doomed.

  To do what? Pass back and forward? These shifts . . . they occurred because one, or the other of them just didn’t know their hearts enough in that moment. There, just now on the beach, she hadn’t known hers enough. She had wavered because she thought he didn’t love her. And perhaps that day, when the Reindeer hoved into view, neither did he. She would not be doomed, would she?

  “Cyril, Sin is going to marry Snotra otherwise. And I know he doesn’t love her and she is bad for him. Now damn well stop all this nonsense and kiss me.”

  “Snotra?”

  “She is his fiancée. But she’s awful.”

  “You mean she’s worse than you?”

  “That honor goes to you. But there, do not make me beg, or George shall know when it comes to being awful, how like a saint I am in comparison. Stealing, lying, abusing trust, oh . . . and pretending to use whores. Isn’t that just a few of your many virtues? And then, there’s the debt.”

  His lips whitened. He still tweaked the cravat into place. “Malice . . . May I just say your Sin is a lucky man. I never thought to say it all the years ago, but you’re quite a woman and had things been different with me . . .”

  Right.

  “ . . . I am still overjoyed to be rid of you.”

  While these words made her heart soar what she really wanted was to kiss him. Not for any of the reasons she once had all these years ago. No. For here. For now. For Sin Gudrunsson.

  She reached behind his neck and dragged his lips to his.

  Troll’s Teeth. Where the hell was the ring? Now that sea serpent had done it again, he had to find it. Get it on Snotra’s finger before she arrived back here in a puff of smoke and magnetized his eyes, like a polar star. His lips too.

  Who was she? What was she? A witch? A devil? An angel? Hardly likely given how good she was in the blankets. Maybe she was something that way. Maybe he—all right—he did have feelings for her. But love a woman, spend his life with a woman who vanished every few moments? He couldn’t.

  If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. What if one of the times, she never came back? What if one of these damned times he couldn’t save her, the messes she got herself in? He really didn’t need it.

  No. Snotra was who he was going to marry. Snotra was why he was crawling on grit about this beach, cinders smoking the sky, wind tearing his hair. And there it was. The ring. Glinting just there beneath that moonlit slashed pool of water, at the bottom, in the sandy grit.

  He had it and now he dug it out, wiped the sludge off it on his tunic, it was going on Snotra’s finger. Snotra. The love of his life, waiting for him there in a flaming mass of candles. She had even done that right, hadn’t she? Would the Saxon witch, or whatever kind of witch she was be as glad to follow his customs? All she seemed to do was argue about them.

  His footsteps thudded in the sand as he tore across it. Towards Snotra. Towards the rest of his life.

  “Christ? Where did you clear off to?”

  As Malice pinged her eyes open, Gentle’s voice assailed her senses. At least she didn’t accuse Malice of being a witch. At least the breath Malice tugged into her choked lungs was cinder-filled. Smoke still billowed beneath a starry sky. Timbers cracked and sizzled. She was back.

  “Never mind that just now. Oh God, please don’t tell me I’m too late . . .”

  “Not exactly. But ever heard the words too close?”

  She hadn’t just heard them, the truth of them was right there, not three yards away across the windswept sand. Him offering, on the tip of his sword blade, that damned ring—it had to be, what else could it be? To Snotra. Snotra.

  And there was Snotra, grabbing it.

  What rose, the black despair, the crushing agony, like a wave on that same shore behind them, flooded every pore, every particle, leaving no space untouched. This was over. Over. Once again she had wagered all and lost everything. And the worst, the very worst, was that when this was done, when he placed that ring on Snotra’s finger, she was going to have to cross that sand and congratulate them both. Have Snotra stick that ring under her nose. She couldn’t bear it.

  “Sin . . .”

  What now? Ari telling him to hurry it along?

  “Not now, Ari.”

  “I know. But there is something you should see.”

  Not her surely? And how foolish for her heart to leap into her throat. To jam it, so she couldn’t breathe, especially now.

  “For Freya’s sake, will you shut up?” Snotra burst out. “This ring is mine. How dare you spoil the moment I put it on my finger?”

  “Well, maybe so, but isn’t Sin meant to do that?”

  The exhalation that came from somewhere deep in his chest, said that maybe he was, but right now where he’d like to ram the ring wasn’t on Snotra’s finger. He tilted his head back, lowered it, spun his gaze over the sand. If somehow there was a way of drawing his gaze, making him look her way, surely to these same heaven’s above, he would remember these sweet moment of time on that island, would know she had never meant to leave him.

  If she had, would she stand here now? The things that stood between them were hard to understand but that did not mean they were impossible to overcome. It was about the love. The love and nothing else. What else was there? God, she did love him.

  “Ari, I swear to Freya, to Odin too, that if you do not keep your big mouth shut, our friendship is over.” Snotra’s eyes glinted. “So, Malice is there, what is so remarkable about that?”

  Yet, if Snotra was so sure of her ground here, why did she feel the need to threaten? Because she saw, as clearly as Ari did, despite everything, she was not the one for Sin Gudrunsson and maybe she never had been?

  “Sinarr loves me. He always has. Since that day he came here wearing that collar. And he hardly needs told otherwise by you. Is that not so, Sinarr, my dearest heart? Have I not donned the candles of my sacred mother in Valhalla, to show how deep my love is for you? Sinarr . . .” He did not reply and she peered closer.

  Not only did he not reply. The sigh didn’t just go to his boots and beyond them. It went down into the sand. It probably went all the way down through subterranean passageways, to hell.

  “Perhaps so, but if they burn any lower you’re in danger of joining your mother in Valhalla, although Valhalla, Valhalla is for the slain. And that’s maybe where I am right now, fooling myself I love you, when you killed me years ago.”

  “Sinarr . . . No . . .”

  The gasp, as if she’d been shot with a flaming arrow—despite everything, Snotra couldn’t believe it, could she? Almost Malice couldn’t believe it herself.

  “Having to have this. Having to have that. Husbands. Money. Land. When I suppose I’ve always been just the boy who came here, wearing that collar. I can’t marry you, Snotra. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Sorry?”

  The long awaited explosion had occurred. But with that amount of candles blazing on Snotra’s head, it was probably hard for her to give full vent to the frustration that seethed inside her. Not without sending hot
tallow wax cascading down her face, although that did not stop her tearing hold of the circlet and flinging it on the sand. Stomping on it too, so the edge of her gown flamed.

  “Help me, Sinarr. Help me.”

  Ari, bounded for the nearest pool to fill his helmet with water. Just as well when Sin Gudrunsson seemed so blind to the danger he gripped her by the wrist. Or was he just so caught in the moment, everything pouring from him at last, he couldn’t help it?

  “I am helping you. I am letting you go. Do you understand? It’s over, Snotra. I wasn’t faithful to you on that island. I didn’t want to be.”

  “Not faithful? Not . . . I cannot listen to this. Oh.Oh.”

  “I was with Malice. And all I could think was if you would compare. And I knew you wouldn’t. So why are we pretending when I can’t ever put that back? She did things to me. She made me feel different about myself.”

  “Oh. Oh.”

  “And when I think of her living as she did for these three weeks, not even caring about what was on her feet . . .”

  Not strictly true but something she strove to look serene about.

  “I know she can be happy with nothing. As I was coming here. Whereas you, Snotra . . . sometimes I wonder if anything makes you happy.”

  “But she’s a thrall, Sinarr. For Freya’s sake, it’s completely forbidden. You can’t marry a thrall.”

  “Is she? You know, I’m not so sure.”