Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (2 page)

Hedeby, Danmark

A bright smile slashed Lyting
’s sun-coppered features as he leapt from the prow of the
Sea Falcon
to the wharf’s solid planking. ‘Twas good to be in Hedeby once more.

As he secured the ship to one of the stout bollards, he scanned the bustling quayside with its colorful mix of humanity.

Já,
‘twas good, he avowed warmly, his pulse quickening to the pace that thrummed along the dock and on through the town. This voyage would be his last for many a year to come — a final excursion before his return to Normandy. Then would he set forth for Corbie and begin studies under the Benedictines, bound by Holy Rule.

Mayhap, in time, he would
yet return to these shores.

With a staunch yank he finished lashing the lines and
glanced back to the sleek ship. Lyting’s grin widened. His sister-in-law, Brienne, and her friend, Aleth, gaped from their perch. The scene before them, he imagined, was wholly unlike any they’d ever witnessed in their native Francia.

Hedeby. Gateway of Danmark. Mistress of trade and crossroad of the North. The town nested in a ring of heavy defense work
s on the Schlei fjord which cut deep across the narrow foot of the Jutland peninsula. Traffic intersected her boundaries east from the Baltic and west from the North Sea. Along the military road, Hærvejen, goods flowed north and south.

Lyting looked on with amusement as Brienne nudged Aleth, pointing out a man who ambled
along the pier in wide, baggy pants gathered below his knees. Aleth, in turn, gasped at the necklace one woman wore, an extravagant piece crowded with large rock crystals, set in silver mountings.

The planks shuddered beneath Lyting as his brother, Rurik, jumped to the wharf beside him. An instant later Aleth
’s husband, Ketil, appeared above them shouldering a narrow wooden ramp.

Lyting tossed a
spirituous glance from one to the other as he helped brace down the thick board. “Best secure the keys to your coffers. Your wives look ready to spend last year’s gain.”

Ketil guffawed in his flaming red beard, his broken features crinkling.
“And what better enjoyment than for a man to squander a bit of coin on his lady? ‘Twill be most happily rewarded in the end.” He winked, then leaned forward to cast Lyting a purposeful nod. “Mind, ‘twould do you well to find a warm and lovesome maid and bind yourself there. Far better than the cold stone walls you seek,” he said, dispensing his all-too-frequent advice.

Rurik chuckled deep and rich as Ketil withdrew.
“Marriage agrees with our friend. Who would have thought that such a wisp of a girl as Aleth could tame that bear?”

Lyting shared the laugh, his smile lingering as his golden brother mounted the plank to rejoin his wife in the ship. Rurik dropped a kiss to Brienne
’s lips, then a second to the small, dark head asleep at her breast. Aleth moved to Rurik’s side just then, bearing a second child, identical to the first, and gave the mite over to his father.

A
warm pride swelled through Lyting as he looked on the Baron and Baronne de Valsemé as they stood with their young heirs and gazed townward. Norse and Frank, they tarried, content in each other’s presence.
Nei
, Norman, Lyting amended, melded by heart and blood.

Danish by birth, Lyting and his brothers had grown to manhood in Jutland
’s north on the inlets and broads of the Limfjord. Their father, Gruel Atli, warred for a decade in Francia alongside their famed uncle, Rollo, and the Norsemen of the Seine.

Nearly four years past, the Frankish king, Charles, came to
terms with Rollo, granting him both fiefdom and title and creating for him a coveted place within the ranks of Frankish aristocracy as Duke of Normandy. For their part, Rollo and his men agreed to defend Charles’s realm and take the waters of Holy Baptism.

In his stead, Rollo awarded Atli for his lo
yalty with the barony of Valsemé, the former holding of Richard Beaumanoir, Brienne’s father. Atli did not enjoy the fruits of his warring for long. Scarcely did Lyting arrive from Limfjord and Rurik return from his travels in the East than their father died. With his last words Atli conferred the barony and his untouched bride — Brienne — to Rurik’s keeping.

Yet,
‘twas a position swift challenged. Jealousies and treacheries ran deep within the barony. The blood of the brothers spilled upon the blade — so much, near lost.

Near lost. Lyting touched the faint scar that lined his cheek, his gaze drifting to Brienne.

“By the Mass!” Ketil’s oath ruptured his thoughts. “Did you bring your full worth?” He grunted as he hoisted a small, iron-clad chest from the cargo hold onto the deck’s planking. “ ‘Tis a rock, Lyting.”

Lyting shook free the old specters and crossed over the ramp.
“There will be little need for coin or goods where I am destined,” he tossed easily, smiling. “And I have brought my wealth apurpose.”

“
Destined indeed,” Ketil rumbled, poised to argue the point. But when Lyting forbore him a glance, Ketil harnessed his tongue.

His lips twitched beneath the curling blaze tha
t shrubbed his face. “Say you, ‘apurpose’?” Ketil notched a brow at Lyting, then bent to retrieve a second trunk from storage. “Mayhap you shall yet restore my confidence and lavish the treasure on some fair damsel.”

“
Have heart, Ketil,” Rurik called back as he aided Brienne down the ramp. “ ‘Tis burdensome enough that Brother Bernard watches henlike over Lyting, sparing his virtue all earthly temptation. But you are ever eager to thrust every unpledged maid onto his path.”

Barely
suppressed laughter rippled through the baron’s crew and men-at-arms who labored to make fast the
Sea Falcon,
preparing to haul her ashore.

“
And well he should have heeded my advice on the day I wed Aleth,” Ketil persisted. “There is no want of maidens in Normandy who would welcome him to their arms
and
beds. ‘Twould be of little surprise should Hedeby’s daughters prove as ardent.”

Lyting shook his head good-naturedly and began to interrupt Ketil
’s discourse, but his friend gave him no pause.

“
That snow-bright hair of yours tempts the women as honey does flies.” Ketil gestured to the exceptional white mane that spilled past Lyting’s shoulders. “I held hope ‘twas to that end that you avoided my lady’s shears of late. Forsooth, you look as fierce as any of our battle-hungry kindred gone
i viking
. Women admire men of courage and steel,” he asserted with a stout nod of his head. “Especially the lustrous maids of Danmark.”

“
Oh, Ketil.” Aleth wagged her head, a soft smile etching her features. “Grant Lyting a measure of peace and do come along.”

Aleth turned to Rurik as he remounted the plank and accepted his outstretched hand. Leaning upon his strength, she allowed him to assist her ashore.

Eager to follow his diminutive wife, Ketil caught up several bundles from the hold and motioned for Lyting to aid him with the solid chest that stood between them. Together, they took up the weight and crossed the deck.

“
Do not be disheartened, my friend,” Lyting cheered as they descended. With a shrug of hard-muscled shoulder, he repositioned the small coffer of riches so that it rode more securely against the curve of his neck. “This is for no silken-thighed temptress but for one of true metal and a voice that fair rings to the heavens. ‘Tis the Bell of Saint Anskar I seek.”

“
Bell? What need have you of a bell?” Ketil’s brows hoisted apart.

“
Have you heard naught of blessed Saint Anskar?” Lyting beamed him a glance as they gained the wharf. “He established a church at Hedeby this century past and furnished it with a fine bell. When Anskar died, so did his mission. ‘Tis said the church yet stands, boasting its bell. ‘Tis my intent to make fair purchase of the piece for Valsemé’s own church. Again, there is little use for coin when I enter the cloistered walls of Corbie.”

“
Corbie. Bell. Bah! ‘Tis no bell you need, but a flesh-and-blood woman. A flesh-and-blood woman who will help you
ring
your blessed bell of Saint Anskar!”

Ahead of them, Rurik and Brienne broke into gales of laughter. Their twins looked on them in wonder, then, caught up in the merriment, joined with peals of unrestrained delight.

The small party of Normans threaded their way through the crowds and carts that choked the waterfront. Arabs in long, fluid robes strolled the docks, some stopping to haggle slave prices with Rus traders who offered sturdy young Slavs. Frisians, garbed in striped tunics and possessing long wilting mustaches, bartered fine Rhenish glassware from straw-packed barrels.

Lyting and Ketil exchanged glances to see how prominently the merchants of Sv
erige figured among the Danes this season. Hedeby changed masters with regularity these days, Lyting acknowledged soberly, a bedeviled state spawned years past when the Swedish king, Olaf, seized control of the market-town. Thenceforth, Hedeby had passed back and forth, between Swede and Dane, in an endless power struggle to control the bounty that trafficked her borders.

For all that, Hedeby prospered and life proceeded largely undisturbed. Though it might rub his Dane
’s pride, ‘twas the Swedes who had fortified her with defense works. And likewise, through them, that the most exotic of goods flowed — luxuries from Byzantium, the Bulgar Khaganates, and the Caliphates of Baghdad.

Ketil gave a snort, drawing Lyting
’s attention to one Swede who dangled a bauble before a shapely Danish maid. She trilled a small laugh as he folded the trinket into her palm. But at the same moment her gaze fell on Lyting and her lips fell open. The Swede twisted round to follow the maid’s interest. Icily he flicked an impatient glare over Lyting, then turned back, shifting his stance to block the maid’s view.

Lyting caught the flash of white teeth cutting a swathe through Ketil
’s beard.

“
Nei,
friend. Not a word,” he warned but was hard put to temper the grin from his own face.

From above, a horn sounded, long and deep, drawing Lyting
’s gaze to the earthen rampart that rose over Hedeby and to the watchtowers atop it. Again, the horn resonated, rich and full-bodied, signaling ships arrived from the sea.

The oddest of presentiments rippled along Lyting
’s spine as he turned to view the palisaded harbor.

“
Let us hope they be not more Sverige-men,” Ketil gruffed.

Lyting watched as the first warship slipped through the sea gate, lying low to the waterline, its
serpent’s prow gleaming.

Keen of sight, he marked the boisterous celebration onboard. The sea warriors axed open casks, ladling up horns full of ale and hailing those ashore before they swilled the contents. As the oars dipped the waters, the men took turns stepping out upon the shafts a
nd dancing over them along the length of the ship. Their comrades cheered them on, then roared with laughter when they lost their balance and splashed into the Schlei.

Those who accomplished the deed rewarded themselves with more drink and gladded themselves further, pillaging lips and fondling breasts of the female captives chained at the mast.

“
Nei,
friend. Not Sverige-men.” Lyting steeled at the sight. “They’re our own kinsmen, fresh from a raid.”

»«

Shackled together by ankle cuffs and chains, their wrists tethered, the maids of Eire shuffled along the timbered street in a single column.

Ailinn strained to glimpse
Deira and Lia where they walked ahead, separated by a dozen or more women. She could not see them. Rhiannon, unhappily, trod directly behind, her tongue no less sharp for her trials.

“
Why should these Norsemen favor
you
above the rest?” she hissed past Ailinn’s shoulder. “Every wretched day since our taking have I struggled on that, choked on that. And though I am ill to think on it further, ‘tis plain. Their greed for gold outweighs the lusts of their loins.”

“
Hush, Rhiannon.” Ailinn cautioned in a tight half-whisper. “They keep watch of us. Hold your tongue lest you would see us flogged.”

“
Flogged? Not
you
,” Rhiannon bit out. “Not
you
who they spare of their appetites and suffer no hardship.
You
, who they cloak warm in wool while the rest of us near freeze upon the open sea. Have you not guessed it?” Rhiannon baited. “They think you to be me — daughter of Mór, princess of the Eóganachts and Domnal’s bride. They see a hearty ransom in that.”

Ailinn
clenched her teeth, incredulous at Rhiannon’s assumption.

“
How should they know aught of us? These are black-shielded Danes who fell upon Eire like wolves out of the North, not the men of
Norge
who infest our fair isle. Did you imagine them to have stopped and questioned their Norse kindred before entering the Suir to determine who was who among the Irish? The Norwegians are their foe as much as any. I have heard it in your father’s hall.”