Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (20 page)

Torn afresh by Rhiannon
’s words, Deira gasped and looked with horror at her belly, then grabbed at Ailinn’s gown.

“
Cease, Rhiannon!” Ailinn exploded. “Shut tight your mouth and
do
take care to not impale yourself upon your tongue.”

Rhiannon began to speak again, but Ailinn advanced on her.
“By the saints, I’ll gag you with my own chains if I must!”

Rhiannon clenched her jaw and reseated herself before the
fire. “Doomed,” she muttered to herself but so the others might hear. “Might as well be dead.”

Great tears spilled over Deira
’s cheeks. “ ‘Tis true, ‘tis true. They will get us with babes. We are no more than animals to them. Animals to mate.” Deira hunched forward and buried her face in her hands.

Ailinn sank instantly to her knees and encircled Deira with her arms. Comforting her, she slipped into Frankish
— their “secret” tongue with which they’d shared so many privacies in years past, but which now afforded her a way to speak to Deira without Rhiannon’s interference.

“
Non, non. Ne pleure pas.
Do not cry.
Viens, permets-moi de to tiens.
Come let me hold you. Sh-h-h-h . . .”

»«

Riveted by the stormy exchange, the men sat motionless, their tongues paused in midsentence and their gestures frozen midair. Like thunder and lightning did the two women clash — the ebony-tressed slavegirl and the autumn-fire maid.

Now, as their squall abated, the one sat with daggers in her eyes
while the other consoled the younger girl in a steady flow of words. Words that carried across the fire, distinct and unmistakable.

Lyting came to his feet, his breath trapped in his chest.
‘Twas as though a door had been flung open within his hearing, a great barrier removed. He stared at the maid as her voice fell sweet upon his ear, her every pronouncement clearly understood.

“
‘Tis Frankish she speaks!” Lyting tossed a side-glance to Skallagrim, then crossed to the other side of the fire.

Lyting dropped to a crouch before the Irish beauty. She
gasped and pulled back, enclosing the girl in her arms. Lyting rebuked himself for moving too swiftly. He did not mean to startle or affright her. Never did he wish her to fear him.

“
Je ne te nuirai pas.
I will not harm you,” he avowed in perfectly accented Frankish.

Ailinn
’s eyes rounded to huge disks and her jaw dropped. She knew that she gaped, but there was no help for it. You speak Frankish!”

The silver warrior smiled, creases appearing in his cheeks.
“I am Lyting Atlison. Ordinarily I speak Frankish each day, for I abide in Francia, in the duchy of Normandy.”

Lyting Atlison.
At last she had a name to put to him. Oddly, it seemed familiar, as though she should have known it all the while. As though it had long been a part of her. He spoke again, his voice beautiful to her ears, the pitch low and smooth.

“
‘Tis my understanding that you were seized in a raid on Ireland. How is it
you
speak Frankish?”

Ailinn searched his
face. She hesitated, wondering how much, if anything, she should divulge, then realized it mattered little. Eire lay behind them and to a great distance, and her kinsmen were dead.

“
There are those Irish nobles who once fled our beloved land for Francia — a time when the Norsemen relentlessly ravaged our shores.”

Ailinn paused for the warrior
’s reaction, but he remained intent to her every word.

“
My stepuncle left with his family at his wife’s bidding but later regretted forsaking Eire and returned.”

She refrained from adding how Cellach had been scorned by the tribe, and how her stepfather, Lorcan, had given his brother and family a place beneath their own roof. Or how later, after Fianna
’s and Lorcan’s deaths, Cellach had taken her in.

“
My stepuncle brought with him a Frankish nursemaid from Francia, for his young daughters. Our families dwelled together for atime.” Ailinn’s eyes moved accusingly to Hakon. “Bergette was the first to be slain in the women’s chamber. She sought to protect me but was felled at my feet by that one’s ax.”

Lyting envisaged the scene, keen to the pain that underlay her words. It must have been then that Hakon seized her. He recalled Stefnir
’s words and hated to think of the maid in Hakon’s possession. Lyting looked to the two who had been taken with her.

“
These are your cousins, then?”

“
Stepcousins,” she corrected. “Though they themselves are cousins of blood.”

“
You said your stepuncle had
daughters
.”

“
The other has been sold.”

“
At Hedeby?”

“
What is Hedeby?”

Lyting traced her elegant features with his gaze, remembering them once besmudged and her eyes fired with defiance.

“The market town of Danmark, where first we met.”

Ailinn
’s eyes widened, but Lyting rose to his feet as Skallagrim joined them, followed by Hakon. The warrior appeared infinitely tall from her perspective. As he spoke with the chieftain, her thoughts reached back to Hedeby and her arrival there — to when he lifted her from the street and held her in his grasp.

“
Come. Do not fear.” Lyting’s hand closed gently about her arm. The image of Hedeby dissolved as the moment blurred from the past to the present. Ailinn found herself gazing up into his incredible blue eyes.

“
Come,” he repeated, aiding her feet and then Deira. “Skallagrim wishes to know more of you.”

The chieftain tugged at his beard and directed several comments to Lyting. Deira eased from Ailinn
’s side as the warrior turned his attention once more to Ailinn.

“
Skallagrim would know what place his men raided, whose hall it was they attacked.”

Ailinn
’s eyes whisked to the chieftain. It incensed her that the heathens should devastate her home, murder her kindred, and not even have a name to put to the place.

Before she could reply, Rhiannon shoved to her feet. Her eyes glowed with a look of triumph
, having witnessed Ailinn and the Dane speaking in a shared tongue — Frankish. Her moment had come at last, and she readied to reap the victory.

“
Tell them,” Rhiannon demanded, grasping Deira by the arm and forcing her forward. “Tell them who I am.”

Deira shrank into the cocoon of her mantle, but Rhiannon stabbed her fingers into Deira
’s arm and compelled her to face the Norsemen.

“
Tell them!” Rhiannon gave her a firm shake.

“
Leave Deira be,” Ailinn snapped.

“
You think I am fool enough to let you render my words for their understanding? You’d favor being in my place a time longer, wouldn’t you? — wearing the rank of nobility to which you have no claim nor can ever hope to bear.
Ní hea
. Deira will tell them.
Word for word
.”

“
What is it your stepcousin says?”

Ailinn felt Lyting lightly touch her arm, but she could not meet his eyes.

“What provokes her so?” he asked again, but Ailinn fixed her gaze on the ground.

“
The chieftain is a man short on patience. Do not risk his anger,” Lyting cautioned, then added, “If you will answer his questions, I will answer yours.”

Ailinn
’s eyes drew to those of the silver warrior. So many questions were locked in her heart. But would he still wish to answer them once Rhiannon had done with her? Would Skallagrim and Hakon afford him the chance?

Ailinn braced herself, the fated moment upon her.

“ ‘Twas Clonmel that the Danes attacked. The hall of the
ruri ri
, Mór.”

“
You’re father’s hall?”

“
Non.
Rhiannon’s.

Hearing Ailinn pronounce her name, Rhiannon released Deira and moved forward as far as her chain would allow. She stood before Skallagrim, her bearing regal. Head held high and straight of spine, she addressed him in Gaelic and, when finished, ordered Deira to translate.

Deira looked to Ailinn and, receiving her reassuring nod, turned to Lyting.

“
I am Deira, daughter of Cellach. Rhiannon, my cousin, asks that I give to you her words precisely as she gives them to me. Further, she asks that, as I do so, you translate them for the chieftain, Skallagrim.”

Lyting nodded, wary.

Deira waited as Rhiannon began, then transmitted her message as her cousin wished, word for word. Lyting, in turn, rephrased the information for Skallagrim.

“
I am the princess of the Casil Eóganachts. Descended from the kings of Munster. Daughter of the
ruri ri
, Mór. ‘Twas Mór’s hall that you beset. On my wedding day.”

Lyting
’s gaze leapt to the auburn-haired maid.

“
I,
not my stepcousin, was the bride. She and I exchanged places that morn. I was to marry a man of wealth and consequence. A man who would still pay a great sum for my return,” Rhiannon assured through Deira.

“
In the bridal chamber we heard the clamor of swords and arms. We believed ‘twas the rival tribe of the Dal Cassis, come to seize
me,
Domnal’s bride. We sought to deceive the Dalcassians. My stepcousin dressed in
my
gown,
my
mantle. We veiled her and placed flowers in her hair. I was hidden among the other maids. Your men were quick to enter our chamber and despoil our maidens there, including myself. But now I make it known to you. ‘Tis I who am the daughter of the
ruri ri
, the princess and bride.
Not
my stepcousin, whom you cosset. She will bring naught to your coffers. But I am worth a very fine ransom.”

Rhiannon waited, cutting Ailinn with her eyes.

Lyting finished imparting the message to Skallagrim and found himself struck by the bravery of the autumn-fire maid who had risked herself in the face of danger. And yet, he wondered of her true reasons, for the
princess
impressed him as a coldhearted woman. He doubted Rhiannon would imperil herself, given a similar circumstance.

The chieftain appeared amused with the princess.

Hakon only shrugged a shoulder and crossed his arms. “She might have been the ‘bride,’ but she was no virgin.”

“
A fiery one, is she not?” Skallagrim’s beard parted with a smile. He directed another question through Lyting.

“
The chieftain would know more of the maid. If she is your stepcousin, would she not also bring a ransom?”

Rhiannon smiled, a poisonous smile that took Lyting aback.

“
Ní hea
. She is nothing. Neither is she related by blood nor an Eóganacht. Her mother married my father’s brother, well after she was born. She springs from the Corcu Loígda, an ancient tribe of Eire, defeated and subdued long ago by the Eóganacht.”

Derision dripped from Rhiannon
’s tongue as she made her final pronouncement. “She is Ailinn of the Érainn. Her people were once Druids.”

Deira
’s voice dropped as she translated the last of Rhiannon’s words, then added quickly, “Of course, they all be Christians now.”

Lyting
’s gaze traveled to the maid.

Ailinn. Of the
Érainn.
A name as beautiful as she, herself. One side of his mouth pulled upward into a smile as he tried to imagine her Druid ancestry. The Druids bore an intense love of nature. As did he.

Truly, the maid possessed an enchantment about her. Long had it been his dream
— a fanciful illusion to make love to a woodland nymph or a water sprite. Until now he had never considered that one might exist.

Lyting turned to convey the last of the princess
’s missive. “Your captive is a most noble and gentle-born maid, Skallagrim, born of a shining and ancient tribe of Ireland — Ailinn of the Érainn.”

Rhiannon smiled, casting a look of triumph to Ailinn as the warrior pronounce
d her stepcousin’s name and that of her reviled tribe. Rhiannon waited expectantly for Skallagrim’s displeasure to fall on Ailinn and for their lots to be recast.

Lyting turned once more to Ailinn, his manner toward her unaltered by the revelations.

“Ailinn.” Her name passed pleasingly over his tongue even as he voiced it. “Are there questions you would ask?”

Ailinn glanced about, surprised the chieftain had given no commands concerning her, nor made the least exertion to alter Rhiannon
’s lot.