Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (16 page)

Skallagrim settled back in his chair, his watchful gaze straying to his prize
slave, as ever it did. Lyting noted that the chieftain was not alone in this. If only he could convince Skallagrim to sail with a smaller crew. Then they would have naught but those outside the ship to concern them.

A handful of men took their leave of the hall, but most lingered to discuss the Dvina route and estimate how soon they might expect to reach Kiev. They talked further of ships and
tonnage and compared the commodities they each brought in trade — notably amber, wax, honey, furs, and slaves.

Many began to throw in their lot with Skallagrim, vowing to bind themselves in
felag
. After one man made his declaration, he boldly appraised the three slavewomen--obviously the chieftain’s, for the shipwright owned none.

“
You bring few slaves this year, my friend, but these you have here are exceptional. ‘Twill be a good voyage.
Já
?” He grinned in wolfish, high spirits, tipping his ale cup toward the tempting prey.

Skallagrim scowled.

“
Já
,” Hakon rejoined when his uncle offered no response.

Dalla chose that moment to retrieve Lyting
’s bowl. As she disappeared across the room, Lyting glanced to the chieftain once more. He sat like a boulder upon his chair, his expression darkened and his color increased. He prowled his gaze about the hall and took measure of those who would sail with him to Kiev.

Alert to Skallagrim
’s shifting mood, Lyting remained vigilant. The chieftain kept the auburn-haired maiden near to his side while the other two slavewomen took up the pitchers and refreshed the cups in the hall.

A few men grew boisterous as someone grabbed at the raven-tressed slave. She rewarded him with a lapful of beer to
cool his ardor. Except for the recipient, the others found this most entertaining. Even Hakon appeared impressed.

Skallagrim
’s voice then rose in the hall, drawing their attention. When they looked, he stood from his chair and raised his cup high.

“
Let us drink to our fellowship, to the journey before us, and to the adventures that await! There are enough men now pledged to fill six ships. Drink deep of your cups, my friends, and on the morrow, see to your craft and gather your goods and slaves. In two days time we sail for the Dvina and the riches of the East.”

The hall took on a festive air, quickening with laughter and the clamor of voices. Skallagrim reseated himself and fell to conversation with Olaf and several other seamen who shared their narrow table. Lyting could only wonder if they discussed the merchant ship that Skallagrim selected earlier at Sven
’s, and whether he now considered these men for his crew.

Gytha set a large platter of salt herring, cheeses, and fruit before them, then stepped aside for the chieftain
’s slave to attend to the men’s cups.

Skallagrim
’s gaze brooded over his Irish prize as she poured the drink for those at table. Drawing on his eating knife, he carved a wedge of cheese and ate it slowly from the blade. He then roved his gaze about the hall. More than once he stopped to stare down one man or another who showed immoderate interest in the slave beside him.

Olaf leaned to the chieftain
’s ear, making some comment above the din. Skallagrim nodded and brought his gaze round, then halted at the sight of his other table companions.

Lyting felt his own choler rise as he watched the men there rake the maid with ruttish looks, their blood warmed by drink and her exceptional beauty.

Skallagrim’s face took on a ruddy cast as one man bolted down the contents of his cup, seemingly for no more than an excuse to compel the maid to come to his side and refill it. All the while his eyes moved hotly over her, unaware of the chieftain’s jealous possession of her.

Observant, Skallagrim stabbed a chunk of herring with the knife tip and flicked it into his mouth. Not bothering to chew, he swallowed it whole.

“ ‘Tis fortunate for us all that you have a reputation as being a sharing sort of man, Skallagrim.” The man smiled broadly, confidently. “I have seven Saxon slaves, and you are welcome to them all, as often as you wish.” His gaze traveled over the Irish beauty. “ ‘Twill be interesting to see how this one rides on the waves.”

He reached for the maid, leaning forward with one arm still resting upon the table and his fingers touching the platter.

Skallagrim’s knife plunged through the air, impaling the fruit beside the man’s hand with such force that the blade lodged in the wood of the platter.

“
You heard wrong,” Skallagrim growled. Wresting the knife free, he lifted it, the fruit still upon the blade, and gestured with its point toward Lyting and Hakon. Both had come to their feet.

The chieftain smiled soberly, his eyes fixing on Lyting.
“We three take a smaller ship this season, one with room for but two more. Those crewmen I have already chosen,” he stated flatly. “But if sharing ‘tis what concerns you, you will likely find Hakon obliging, leastwise during the times that we camp.”

The men left the table in less cheer. As he ate the fruit from his blade, Skallagrim bid Lyting over.

“Make your sea-trial in the morning.” Skallagrim speared him with his gaze. “But you best be flat-out certain of the craft’s capabilities, Atlison. I have no death wish to perish in the Gulf of Riga.”

“
Nor do I.” Lyting held the chieftain’s gaze, his own unfaltering.

Hope swelled in Lyting
’s chest. He yearned to look to where the maid stood behind the chieftain’s chair, but he dared not. By God’s might, he would see his quest successfully to its end, his only hope now — that Skallagrim would give him free rein of the ship.

Skallagrim rubbed his bearded jaw.
“I must think on who we might take on as crewmen.” A sly smile touched his eyes. “But for now, reassure me with another of your tales of Nørdby and Søndervig. The men could use a rousing tale to hearten them for the perils ahead and glean what courage they can.” He rolled an eye to Lyting. “You have yet to meet the tribesmen of the Steppe.” He gruffed out a laugh and took a swill of beer.

Lyting assumed a place near the hearth on the side-floor, and
the hall hushed to hear the tale he would unfold of heroic feats and warrior kings.

Eirik sat at his feet with eyes shining and drank of his every word. Dalla imposed herself sweetly, snuggling beside Lyting and laying her head upon his lap.

Hakon listened from a distance. His expression grew more sullen as he drank. While Lyting entertained the occupants of the hall with his stories, Hakon moved to where the slavewomen huddled at the far end of the room. Making his choice, he hauled the black-haired girl to her feet and took her from the place.

»«

Deira drew back against Ailinn and began to shake, her fear plain for Rhiannon, dark memories gnashing.

“
Shh,” Ailinn comforted, stroking her hair. “Listen to the Dane’s voice. How soothing it is. He tells them a tale, no doubt of great deeds — of bravery and glory — like our own people are wont to tell in the halls of Eire. Think on those now.”

Ailinn rocked Deira gently and hummed a quiet tune. The warrior
’s voice faded as she recalled the sweet meadows of Clonmel where she once ran free as a child. Of a sudden, she became aware of Skallagrim standing over her and of the quiet in the hall. The white Dane had finished with his story. But why did the others look at her so?

The chieftain gestured to her and then to the hall.

“Ailinn, he wishes for you to sing.”

“
I did but hum. Why does he — ?”

“
He heard you sing before — to Lia upon the sea. Oh, do sing, Cousin.” Deira squeezed her hand. “You sing so beautifully, and ‘twould cheer me, truly.”

“
Then, for you, Deira. And for Lia. Here, lay your head to my shoulder.” Ailinn smiled. “We shall close our eyes and believe we sit before the peat fires in your father’s hall, and that the morrow holds no cares.”

»«

The pure, crystal tones of maid’s voice floated out over the hall, the strains hauntingly sad and infinitely beautiful.

Lyting settled back with Dalla still upon his lap, wholly arrested, unable to take his eyes from the
Irish beauty even if he wished. And he did not wish. The melody’s lilting airs wreathed through him — ageless and soul-stirring. They wrung him out.

As the song ended, Lyting glanced down to find Dalla asleep
on his lap. His heart dilated. Gytha came quietly forward and gathered up the child, taking her away.

The maid
’s voice lifted over the hall once again, and Lyting indulged himself the pleasure of her beauty and the enchantment of her voice as he observed her from afar.

He rested back upon an elbow and allowed his thoughts to drift. Closing his eyes, the silvery notes bore him up and carried him on wing. One melody blended into the next. They shifted of a sudden, altering in character, rhythm, and language.

Lyting plummeted back to the moment as Frankish words — one after another — spilled distinctly upon his ears. He sat upright on the edge of the side-floor, suddenly alert. ‘Twas a child’s song, one he had heard Brienne sing often to amuse the twins.

Lyting studied the maid of Eire, wondering how she could know of it. She finished the melody as quickly as she
’d begun it and reverted again to a lyrical Irish strain.

Thoughtfully, h
e rubbed a forefinger across his lips then back along his jaw. Had she simply committed the song to memory? Or might it be possible that she had knowledge of the Frankish tongue?

»«

Later, in the depths of the night, when the men had long since departed the shipwrights’
hús
and found their way to their beds, Lyting tossed in a fitful sleep, tormented by the dream that long haunted him.

Swords parried and flashed, his half brother, Hastein, slashing down on him like a demon in the dark. A woman screamed. Anxiously Lyting looked for Brienne and found her cleaved with anguish.

But her features suddenly transformed before him, her midnight hair firing with the deep reds of autumn. Now ‘twas the maid of Eire who reached out toward him. Tears spilled over her cheeks as she cried out his name in warning.

Turning back, Lyting found, not his half brother, but Hakon, brandishing the sword before him.

“
He is not like the others.” Rhiannon’s gaze traveled over the long, hard length of the silver warrior.

Ailinn stole a sideways glance of the Dane, acutely aware of his nearness. He stood to the fore of the ship, taking a sun-reading with a small wooden dial of some nature. He held an easy stance, his broad shoulders and well-muscled legs richly outlined by his leather
corslet and the trim fit of his trousers. His beard had thickened further, adding to his potent good looks.

Completing his calculations, the Dane moved past the women, his gait steady and even upon the surging deck, his gaze cast out over the expanse of sea, searching the eastern horizon. Rhiannon watched him with close interest.

Ailinn sealed her lips against her annoyance and what impulse goaded her to say. Looking back past the stern post, she focused on the ships that followed in their wake, five in all. They maintained a staggered formation so as not to block one another’s wind.

“
Ailinn believes the white-haired Dane to be one of the Normans of Francia, a nobleman,” Deira replied unexpectedly to Rhiannon’s comment.

“
Francia.” Rhiannon considered the word and the man, dragging a tapered fingertip downward over her throat.

Ailinn
’s mouth thinned. She wished now that she had held her tongue earlier. While Rhiannon napped, she and Deira had spoken quietly of their captivity in the Norse trading center and of her time at Thora’s
hús
.

“
The Northmen rule a duchy in Francia that extends to the Channel and the seas.” Rhiannon wrapped her arms about her knees and continued to ponder the silver warrior.

“
A nobleman you say?” Her brow lined with thought. “Francia is not so great a distance from Eire. Doubtless, these men are adventurers and merchants. They begin their journeys now, for ‘tis spring. But they will return homeward when fall nips the air, before winter chokes the rivers with ice. Likely, this Norman also returns to his duchy at the season’s end.”

Rhiannon continued to stroke a single finger along her throat and contemplate the towering Dane.

Perturbed, Ailinn turned away. ‘Twas obvious Rhiannon crafted her designs, contriving how best to gain favor with the man and use him to her ends. Presumably, she would first seek to heighten her value — and her appeal — in his eyes, making known to him her privileged status — an Eóganacht princess, worthy of ransom and of his noble bed, if that is his desire.

Would he desire? The thought rankled.

“He appears to favor you, Ailinn.” Deira absently plucked at the nap of her dress. “Ever his eyes are upon you. The others might not see. But I see.”

Surprise
washed through Ailinn.

Deira smoothed the fabric of her gown.
“The white-haired Dane is the one who tried to make your purchase when first we arrived in the Danish town. Lia and I were chained ahead of you in the line, but we watched all that passed. ‘Tis my guess he still wishes to possess you and keep you for his own.”

Ailinn
’s brows whisked high. At the same moment she caught Rhiannon’s searing glare in the edge of her vision. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Clearing the tickle that threatened in her throat, Ailinn sobered her expression.
“The chieftain does not seem eager to sell me.”

“
Perhaps the Dane will yet influence the chieftain and change his mind,” Deira encouraged. “And should he succeed, oh, think on it, Ailinn. ‘Twould be as Rhiannon says. In Norman lands you would be so much nearer to Eire. Hopefully, someday, somehow, you could escape home to Clonmel and be free.”

Deira drew up the edge of her gown and began to chafe it against her neck and along her arms.
“Of course, there is risk in that as well as advantage. He would likely take you for his concubine. Yet, ‘tis far better than so many men wishing to — ” She retreated into the folds of her mantle and fell silent.

Ailinn
’s heart cramped for Deira. She reached out and squeezed her stepcousin’s hand. Easing back, Deira’s words continued to weave through her.

Intimacy with the silver warrior? She glimpsed his commanding figure and found that the promise of that fate held no fear. Instead, it released a
flood of warmth within her.

As Ailinn brought her eyes from the Dane, she met Deira
’s gaze. The girl smiled softly, her eyes large and doelike, though wounded in their depths.

“
He
is
different from the others. I sense something good in him.” Deira lifted Ailinn’s hand and put it to her cheek. “Whatever comes, whatever happens to us, I pray he takes you into his keeping and sees you well, and returns with you at his side to Francia.”

Emotion welled, congesting Ailinn
’s chest. Fearful and heartsick for what the morrow might bring, she placed a comforting hand to Deira’s head.

Rhiannon
shot Ailinn a poisonous glare, then turned away and squinted hard across the unbounded sea. “We’ll see who returns to Francia,” she grated beneath her breath.

»«

Lyting cupped his hands about his eyes, concentrating his sight on a distant flock of seabirds. The span of sea strained even his sharp vision. ‘Twas impossible to identify them with certainty.

He continued to search for a slow-beating cloud of lapwings, or a small bevy of dunlins or plovers. These, or any of the numerous species of shorebirds would signal that they were closing upon the coast of Courland and the Gulf of Riga.

Lyting paced the ship’s
larboard
side. He felt the wind on his cheek — a good northwesterly, he knew by experience, having no need to consult the bright threads streaming from the prow’s vane, or the ripples on the water purling across the sea. Except for a brief rain burst yesterday, the convoy had enjoyed bright, sun-filled days, calm waters, and favorable winds. Added to that, their crossing had been uneventful, without menace from sea robbers. By his reckonings of speed, distance, and position, Lyting believed their progress surpassed earlier estimations. He expected they would sight land within the coming hours.

In all likeliness a trap awaited them there.

Restless, Lyting moved to check the rigging.

The
Little Auk
, as Skallagrim called the ship after the little bird of northern waters, had shown herself well in the sea trials, proving light, fleet, and responsive — easily handled by a crew of five.

To that end, Skallagrim had taken on two able seamen, known to him from past ventures. Whatever the chieftain
said to them concerning the Irish captives, the men had thus far troubled none of them, confining their interests to the slavewomen they brought of their own.

Lyting worked his way back toward Ragnar, the helmsman, who gave him a nod and a smile. Currently they voyaged under
full sail power, without need of oars. Due to an alteration of Lyting’s device, all but the helmsman could enjoy a small respite. In verity, Ragnar had argued with Orm for that privilege and now sat at the tiller as a child with a toy, controlling the entire ship from where he sat, both by the rudder and, now also, by the sheets — or lines — which Lyting had trimmed astern.

To accomplish this, Lyting had
modified the running rigging, leading the lines back through the oar ports and securing them as needed with the ports’ wooden plugs. This enabled the helmsman to trim the spar and the lower edge of the sail from his position astern while he tilled the rudder. With the helmsman able to govern the ship alone, it required only one man to hold watch — a decided advantage with so small a crew.

Lyting gazed on the large, square sail. One additional alteration would also prove to advantage, he thought, especially if they were to confront the pirates of Riga.

In the king’s dragon fleet, the crews employed various devices to adjust for wind conditions — sometimes long poles to stretch out the lower corners of the sail, at other times iron grips attached along the sail’s reinforced bottom edge by which a man could turn the sail by hand and maneuver his craft out of vulnerable situations.

But the
Little Auk
was equipped with neither of these. Lyting considered other possibilities, seeking a way to extend the foot of the sail from the mast to the clew, the outer edge of the sail. As his gaze quested about the deck for a suitable implement, he saw Skallagrim motion Hakon and Orm astern to the
steorboard
, steering board, quarter. They joined Lyting and Ragnar a moment later.

Skallagrim crouched down in their midst and unrolled a hide map, smoothing it upon the deck for all to see.

“The Gulf of Riga,” he stated, tracing a finger around its cuplike shape. “The mouth of the Dvina lies here, on her lower end, at the bottom of the goblet.”

The chieftain looked up from beneath his shelf of brow
s. “These lands are inhabited by numerous tribes. We need worry only of the Cours, who control the coastal plain, and of the Semigallians, who hold the plain just south of the Dvina. Our main threat, however, comes not from the Balts but our own kinsmen — the sea wolves of Scandia, who have found a lucrative trade here, bartering the bite of their swords for honest merchants’ wares . . . and their slaves.”

Lyting
’s glance skipped to the women chained at the mast.

“
Domesnär.” Skallagrim thumped the marking on the map. “Courland’s northern tip. ‘Tis the most dangerous point we must negotiate in order to gain access into the Gulf. As you can see, the island of Saaremaa obstructs nearly the entire entrance into the Gulf.

“
We will need to sail around the southern end of Saaremaa, north of Courland. The shoals of Domesnar will force us up toward the island, bottling us into its neck, here, its most treacherous point.” He drew a blunt finger along the hide. “We will need to progress in a single line for atime and will be forced to make a ‘dogleg’ turn as we enter the Gulf, on the leeward side of the island. ‘Tis our weakest point. If the pirates attack, they will do so while we are on the crosswind.”

Skallagrim shoved to his feet, leaving the map spread upon the deck.
“ ‘Tis my habit to lead in the convoy’s largest and best-armed ship. If robbers are waiting, they will seek to ram us with reinforced craft.” The chieftain settled an eye on Lyting. “ ‘Tis my guess, however, that you bear a different course in mind.”

Lyting caught the beam alight in Skallagrim
’s eyes. He recognized at once that the chieftain sought to taste of a new adventure this season — a rousing confrontation, unlike those he commonly fought. ‘Twas the thin edge of danger, a kiss with death and the prospect for glory, that the chieftain craved. A contest upon the seas, likened to those fought by the king’s fleet at Nørdby and Søndervig.

Lyting
’s lips spread with a smile.
“Já.
I do have aught in mind.”

Seizing the moment, he bent to the map.
“We are light, swift, and maneuverable. My preference is to sail the
Little Auk
in first. With her in the lead and the others holding slightly back, the sea robbers will think us to be easy prey. With luck we can draw several ships off, then this is what we shall do. . . .”

Skallagrim nodded as Lyting outlined his plan. Hakon and Orm hovered, and Ragnar strained to see. When Lyting finished, the others stood silent, mulling his words.

“We can do that?” Skallagrim asked, amazed.

“
On my word,” Lyting vowed, his tone confident, filled with an assuredness born of experience.

The chieftain cracked a wide grin.
“Then let us make it so. I will till the rudder through the narrows myself. When the moment comes, give your commands.”

A cleansing relief poured through Lyting, followed by a rush of pure energy.
‘Twas a small victory but key. Vital to their success.

As the men began to disperse, Lyting stepped to check the surplus of oars and line stowed along the
larboard
side. Hakon came to stand beside him and leveled a vacant stare low across the dark, blue waters.

“
If your strategies prove wrong in this, monk, I’ll feed you to the fish as bait, long before the pirates can board this little bucket.”

Lyting turned and pierced him with
his gaze. “If you are capable of following tactical orders, Hakon, I suggest you do so, or stay out of my way. Otherwise, we’ll both be examining the Gulf from the bottom up.”

Lyting moved off to check more of the seal-hide lines and, finding some to be dry, sloshed them with sheep fat. He then
looked to the coals, glowing red in a small iron pot that squatted on a bed of rocks and sand. A covered jar of seal oil waited nearby and, with it, a bundle of kindling.

Lyting went to sit upon his sea trunk, which doubled as a bench, and took up one of the arrows from the bundle there, along with a strip of linen. As he wound the cloth about the arrow
’s tip, he scanned the deck. All appeared secure. The women had been moved forward of the mast so as not to obstruct his path when he needed to reach it.