A Flame Put Out (9 page)

But the woman held out her hand to stop her. “I’m fine, my dear. We will talk in the morning.” Wraithlike, she left the room.

Selia swallowed and watched as Hrefna shut the bedchamber door behind her. It seemed wrong for her to be by herself. Shouldn’t they try to do something to comfort her?

Alrik took her wrist, pulling her to him. “Selia. Leave her. She needs to be alone.”

She turned back to him with a sigh. The flickering light from the hearth illuminated Alrik’s gaunt face. His skin had a waxy pallor to it and his eyes looked sunken. How long had it been since he had eaten? Or slept? She reached up to trace her fingers lightly across the line of fresh stitches on his forehead. She drew them across his cheek, feeling the sharp outline of the bone and the hollow beneath it.

Alrik might look half-dead, but he was alive. He was home. She leaned in to feel the warmth that radiated from his skin, and placed a soft kiss on his mouth. The wave of desire that overtook her was strong and unexpected, and she had to close her eyes for a moment to steady herself.

But he didn’t move, and Selia dropped her hand and stepped back. Maybe it was too soon. The deaths of Olaf and his men were too fresh for him to be interested in anything else. “Do you also need to be alone?” she whispered.

The intensity of his gaze shook her to the core. “No,” he rasped. He pressed his hand to the back of her neck to pull her closer, his fingers digging in. “I need you, Selia. But I don’t want to hurt you. It has been a long time.”

She studied him. Alrik’s desire was dark, restless for release. The beast was pacing. Had he indeed been true to her, then? Had he not taken advantage of their time apart to sample the charms of whatever woman caught his fancy? Selia shivered as she felt his craving, her body answering the primal call.

She cupped his face and kissed him, all her pent-up longing coming to a head. She moaned into his mouth, craving him, and the heat emanating from Alrik intensified and exploded into urgency. His hands were on her, crushing her body to his. The sound that came from his throat sounded like a growl.

He pulled her shift up and his roving fingers found what he needed. Selia’s knees went weak and she thought for a moment he was going to haul her into his lap to take her then and there. But he rose to his feet, lifting her, and carried her into the bedchamber. The candle had burned out and the room was in darkness. Alrik bolted the door, then bore her to the bed.

His mouth on hers was demanding, possessive, and the pitch blackness of the room intensified Selia’s rush of desire. She tugged at his shirt, finally pulling it over his head, and sighed with satisfaction as she felt the solid muscles of his torso under her hands. She fumbled to unfasten his trousers as he pushed her back on the bed.

He tore off her shift and his hands found her breasts, but he faltered as he bumped into the unyielding mound of her belly. He hesitated for a moment, then rolled her over. Alrik lifted her hips and sheathed himself inside her.

Selia cried out at the sensation of being filled completely. It had been too long; she had missed him so much, and she met him now, thrust for thrust. The frustration and worry she’d suffered heightened into frenzy, and she gripped the blankets with both fists as her body shuddered with release. With a final groan, he buried himself inside her and went still.

He let her go and collapsed on the bed next to her, breathing hard. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see the outline of Alrik’s massive body against the pillows. She had lain in this bed, alone, night after night, praying for him to return. And now he was here. The simple pleasure of lying in bed with her husband beside her caused her tears to well up again.

But her happiness came at the expense of others’ sorrow. Hrefna would never lie next to Olaf, and Alrik’s men would never be with their families again. Selia burrowed into the crook of Alrik’s arm, needing the comfort of his embrace. She breathed in his scent and held on to him, listening as his racing heartbeat slowed.

Something was different. Bedding her almost always lightened Alrik’s mood, but now he was quiet and withdrawn, closed off from Selia even as he held her. As though his body had returned from the voyage but his soul was trapped with nine dead men at the bottom of the sea.

“I missed you so much, Alrik,” Selia whispered into the darkness.

It took him a moment to respond. “I missed you too,” he echoed.

Chapter 9

An air of melancholy settled over the house with Alrik’s return. His ruined dragonship sat on the water with the end of the splintered mast rising from the wreckage like a broken bone. The railing on one side was smashed to bits, part of the decking crushed as well. It looked to Selia as though the ship would never sail again.

And Alrik seemed as broken as his ship. He had the thralls bring him a steady supply of ale, and he stayed in the bedchamber, brooding, irritable; restless. Only the ale seemed to take the edge off. Even at night he only slept after he had drunk himself into a stupor.

Selia did everything she could to distract him, but not even she could bring him out of his gloom for long. She had been right about his emotional state. Bedding her was now nothing more than a physical release for him, after which he would stare silently up at the rafters.

Finally he rose from the bed with something approaching purpose. He opened all the chests and dumped the contents out onto the floor, muttering to himself. Selia watched him warily.

“What are you doing?” she asked. It was just after dawn, but she knew he had been awake most of the night. When he turned to look at her, she cringed. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed, his hair a tangled mess around his face. He looked like a madman.

Alrik shook his head but didn’t answer. He knelt on the floor and began to divide the horde of treasure into piles. Selia wrapped a blanket around herself against the chill and walked over to him. She watched him for a few moments as he picked up each piece and made a careful selection of which pile to put it in. Selia counted the piles; there were eight. Nine dead men, minus Olaf. Eight piles.

“Are these for the families of your men?” she asked quietly.

Alrik grunted, and she took this for a yes. She knew most of the bounty the men had collected from the raid had been lost in the storm, and what was left had been divided among the surviving members of the war band. It was Alrik’s duty as Hersir to ensure the survival of the families of all of his men. Although winter hadn’t hit with a vengeance yet, it soon would, and many of the families could not get by without the yield of the twice-annual raids.

Selia hesitated. “Can I help you?”

“No. Just stay out of the way.”

She knelt next to him. “What about food?” she asked. “They will need food for the winter.”

He stopped for a moment, grimacing as if annoyed at the distraction. “Yes,” he snapped. “Go to the pantries and bring the surplus here. Only leave what we need to get by until spring.” He turned back to his piles, dismissing her.

Selia rose to dress. As she was leaving she spotted a golden ball that had rolled away when Alrik had overturned the chests, and she picked it up to hand to him. Then stopped short and frowned as she got a closer look at it. Not a ball but rather a knob in the shape of a lion’s head, sized to fit in the palm of a hand. The lion’s eyes were glittering rubies.

She stared at the lion’s head.
No.
No, it couldn’t be. She turned it over in her hand and cried out as she saw the hole on the other side. It was the top of a cane, and the hole was meant for the wooden end of the cane to fit in. Selia had seen this particular cane many times before.

Alrik looked up at her with narrowed eyes. “Give that to me.”

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

Alrik snatched the lion’s head from her hand. He didn’t add it to the piles but instead set it aside on the floor. “You know where I got it, Selia.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. “Did you kill him?”

“Of course I killed him,” he retorted impatiently. “I told you I would.”

“Alrik! He was an old man. What threat was he to you?”

Her husband stood and crossed his arms. His face had lost its despondency and now—for a moment, at least—his anger made him look more like himself. More like the Hersir.

He glared down his nose at Selia. “Any man who would take what is mine is a threat to me. He paid men to try to steal you away. Did you expect me to let that go unpunished?”

Selia didn’t reply as her tears spilled over for Buadhach. Had the poor man suffered? Had Alrik at least made it quick? She was afraid to know the answer. She turned away, hoping God had shown mercy on the soul of the man her husband had murdered.

Later that morning, Alrik packed one of the little boats to overflowing, then set off from the bay to distribute the provisions to the families of the dead men. The house was shrouded in silence after he left. Ingrid was staying at Ketill’s house with Bolli. She had made it very clear she blamed her father for Bolli’s crushed foot. Hrefna remained silent, quieter than Selia had ever known her to be. Did the woman also blame Alrik for the death of Olaf?

Or did Hrefna blame Selia? It had been at her behest that Alrik had postponed the fall trip. She had of course been reluctant for Alrik to leave so soon after she had returned to him. But the darker reason was because she had hoped Muirin would go into labor before he left, ensuring he was there to free Muirin and claim the thrall’s child as his. The thought of Hrefna being upset with Selia made it difficult to focus on anything else.

Geirr woke fussing from his nap, and Selia dropped her spinning to go to him. She held the babe more than was necessary now, but she needed the distraction. She looked down at his beautiful face, chewing at her lip.

As she held one child, the other—as yet unborn—kicked in her belly. He was getting stronger, for sometimes he would kick her so hard she nearly lost her balance when she was walking. Her condition was impossible to hide at this point; the rounded outline of her belly protruded just past her breasts. Hrefna said she had about three more full moons until the babe was born. Selia didn’t like to think about how large the child could grow by then.

Geirr looked up at her with a somber expression and she gave him a small smile. He cooed and smiled back, wide and toothless, and kicked his legs in infant joy.

She bent to kiss his head. The thought of any harm coming to Geirr made her sick and anxious. Selia loved him, there was no denying it now. It had taken the threat of Gunnar and his men at the farmstead for her to finally realize it. The only thing she could do at this point, the only thing that would approach making this right, was to care for—and love—this motherless child.

As if reading her thoughts, Geirr turned his head and began to root at her bodice, searching for milk. She repositioned him. “None yet, little boy,” she said, and left the house to find Hallveig.

On her way back from the slave quarters, Selia turned into the woods to set a snare. She had seen Ainnileas do it often enough to know how. She needed a sacrifice for Odin, but was reluctant to kill one of the farm animals. That would necessitate telling Hrefna what she done, and she was sure the woman wouldn’t be pleased. Odin granted great power to the Finngalls who prayed to him, but the god’s gifts were dark and always came with a price.

Selia returned that evening to find a rabbit struggling in the snare. It was young and rather small, and its thrashing intensified as she approached. She watched it, her hands growing clammy with sweat, and fought back a wave of nausea as she knelt down beside the animal. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

She took a deep breath to steady herself and wiped her hands on her gown. It was no different than killing a chicken for supper. No different.
And to deny Odin the blood required to answer her prayer to bring Alrik home would surely bring dreadful consequences. The god might take a sacrifice of his own.

“Odin,” she called out in Norse. “I thank you for the safe return of my husband.” Her voice sounded hollow and thin, and a sudden wind blew her words away as it whipped through the trees. “I give you the blood of this animal as tribute.” She unsheathed her dagger.

The rabbit seemed to sense her deadly intention. Its thrashing took on an air of panic, and she stared down at it, wavering. Its eyes rolled up to her, and it made small squealing noises as it struggled. Selia’s mind rebelled.

What was she doing? How had she come to this—an Irish Christian, preparing to slaughter an animal in the name of a heathen god who had cursed Alrik’s family with nothing but misery? Odin had brought her husband home to her, yes, but at the cost of the lives of men he loved. And possibly at the cost of his sanity.

Odin did not deserve a sacrifice. He didn’t deserve anything more from this family than he had already taken. Grabbing the rabbit, she wrestled to hold it still, then slipped the tip of the dagger under the rope around its hind leg. The rabbit squirmed and twisted in her hand, squeaking. It sunk its teeth into her flesh just as she cut it free from the snare.

She screamed and dropped the rabbit. The animal’s teeth had laid open a small gash on the pad of flesh beneath her thumb. The creature skittered away as Selia’s blood dripped onto the white of the snow.

She brushed her tears away, then took a handful of snow in her injured hand and squeezed it to stop the bleeding. Now would be the time to pray, to ask God for forgiveness for what she had almost done. But the words wouldn’t come. Her throat felt as dry as ashes.

She stood up, sniffling, and steadied herself on a tree for a moment. The babe squirmed inside her as he always seemed to do whenever she was upset. Selia rubbed her belly to comfort the child, and turned to go back to the house.

There was a fluttering of wings as a raven settled on a branch above her and studied her with its beady black eyes. Selia’s skin crawled at the sight. She hated ravens. A sudden stench of smoke and rotten flesh permeated the air, so strong she felt as though she were choking on it. An unreasonable panic arose inside her. She wanted to run.

Run from what, exactly—a silly bird?

She threw the bloody ball of snow at the raven, but although it fluttered its wings again, it didn’t fly away. It cawed at her as it paced along the branch. Ravens were sacred to Odin. Had he sent this one to ensure Selia completed her task as promised?

“That is all you will get from us.” She motioned to her blood in the snow. “Tell him to leave us alone.”

An odd tightening in Selia’s abdomen took her breath. It felt as though a large hand had wrapped around her and squeezed. Gasping, she fell onto her knees in the snow. The raven cawed and flew away.

A shiver traveled down her spine as the pain passed. Was this a warning from Odin? Would he hurt the babe? Had she put her child in danger by refusing the sacrifice? Selia’s fear bit thick and dark, and it threatened to overwhelm her for a moment.

No. Hrefna had warned her as she progressed in her confinement she would suffer pains from time to time. This was nothing more than that. Selia took a deep breath, forcing the fear away, and headed for home.

Alrik returned from his short journey early the next morning. Selia was still in bed, half asleep, when she heard him close the bedchamber door. He undressed, then climbed into bed. He lay still, not touching her, and she rolled over to look at him.

“Alrik,” she mumbled. “You were gone all night.”

“I stayed at Ketill’s,” he replied.

“How is Bolli?”

“I don’t think he will lose his foot after all. But . . .” he trailed off and shook his head. “It isn’t good. None of it is good.”

Selia examined him closely. Alrik looked thin and exhausted. He hadn’t slept well since he had come home, other than when he drank himself into a stupor. The tragedy had aged him, and all of his typical bravado had disappeared. Would he ever be the same again after this devastating loss?

“I’m sorry,” she fretted. “I should not have asked you to stay. If you had left when you wanted to, none of this would have happened.”

Alrik brooded and didn’t answer. Her heart sank. He did blame her then.

But he continued on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I asked Ketill to take Olaf’s place as my right hand man, and he refused.”

Ketill had lost his eldest son in the storm. His youngest son might never walk again. And his middle son had a permanently disfigured face at the hands of the Hersir during their spring trip. Could the man be blamed for hesitating to take Alrik up on his offer?

“Perhaps he needs time to think about it,” she suggested. “Maybe it is too soon to ask.”

Alrik didn’t answer, but only stared up at the rafters, silent and pensive. He finally drifted off into a fitful sleep. Selia lay next to him until the sun’s rays penetrated through the smoke hole. Even in his sleep his face had a worried, pinched expression. His grief over the deaths of his men, and the uncertainty of whether or not the war band would stay together, covered him like a shroud.

She dressed quickly and slipped from the room. Hallveig would want to hand Geirr over to her soon. The house was deserted as she went out the kitchen door on her way to the privy. Every time she stepped outside, she tried to avert her eyes from the wreckage of the ship. It sat at the dock, as broken and forlorn as a ghost ship. But she saw a flash of color from the corner of her eye and turned to see a figure sitting at the dock.

Hrefna.

She approached the woman, calling her name softly so she wouldn’t startle her. Hrefna turned, her eyes hollow and ringed with purple. “Hello, my dear,” she said in a flat voice as Selia sat down.

She slipped her hand into Hrefna’s and squeezed it. The woman’s fingers were icy cold. “How long have you been out here?”

Hrefna blinked. “I’m not quite sure. Before dawn.”

“You are going to freeze to death,” Selia chastised. She removed her cloak and put it around the woman’s shoulders. “Come inside and I will make you something to eat.”

Hrefna didn’t answer, studying the ship instead. “It’s odd, isn’t it, how we make small decisions, not knowing which one will be our last. I keep looking at the ship and wondering where Olaf was standing when the wave took him. I wonder if he moved at the last moment, or if he was simply in the wrong spot all along.” Her eyes traced along the ship’s crushed railing. “Did he go under right away, or did he struggle? Did he call for help? Did he try to swim back to the ship?”

Selia shivered. “No good will come from those thoughts.”