Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (5 page)

Stefnir shrugged.
“Wherever lies the truth, there is one thing for certain. Skallagrim does not take his women openly on raids as do the others. At times he keeps a woman in his tent. Let us hope he enjoys some success. ‘Tis a wretched thing to befall a man.”

Lyting nodded absently, his thoughts running far ahead.
“What need has Skallagrim of a virgin if he cannot make use of her himself?”

“
Silk. He means to use her to gain concessions in Byzantium’s silk trade.”

For a second time Lyting stopped abruptly midstep and rounded on his old comrade.

“Upon Odin’s beard, ‘tis truth,” Stefnir swore. “I sat about the fires with Skallagrim one night while he was in one of his more agreeable moods and drink had eased his tongue. He claimed she is more valuable to him than gold. But only if he can deliver her to the East undefiled.”

Stefnir gestured that they divert along a side lane. Lyting easily matched pace, though his mind was set to spinning.

“Like myself,” Stefnir continued, “Skallagrim voyaged on this raid for quick plunder — to enrich himself as he might before setting sail for Miklagárd, the ‘Great City’ of Byzantium — Constantinople. As he tells it, he hunts Arctic furs in the winter months and trades in Byzantium during the summer. His sister, Thora, maintains a
hús
here in Hedeby. ‘Tis his anchorage, so to speak.” Stefnir directed Lyting right on a northward walk.

“
It might surprise you, but Skallagrim is a man of farsightedness. For years he has courted Byzantium’s officials and labored to see the silk trade opened to Western markets. The Byzantines impose many restrictions and tariffs and allow precious little of the stuff to pass out of their walled city. Evidently, Skallagrim neared an arrangement last summer. He woos a high court official, a thoroughly — and advantageously — corrupt man who holds sway with the minister of trade.”

Stefnir
glanced to Lyting and lifted a meaningful brow. “This official possesses a reputation for generosity to those he befriends. And those who gift him well. Among other diversions, the man collects beautiful concubines from all over the Empire and beyond. But he accepts only virgins, not wanting to acquire them disease-ridden and possibly pregnant. ‘Tis my belief he harbors some personal fetish to be the first to broach those fair portals himself.” Stefnir snorted.

Lyting envisaged the beauty trapped within the Byzantine
’s exotic web as he employed his methods to break and subdue her. Bile rose in Lyting’s throat.

“
Anyway,” Stefnir continued, “when Skallagrim ensnared the Irish beauty, arrayed in her bridal raiment, he saw her usefulness and felt he had gained better spoils than even Harald Split-Brow in the end. He intends to sail with her at week’s end for Byzantium.”

Lyting
’s thoughts churned with his rising emotions as Stefnir came to a halt. Looking up, Lyting realized they stood before the slave
hús
.

“
Mere talk of this woman doth whet my appetite,” Stefnir declared. “What say you we entertain ourselves with a few Irish wenches?”

Lyting suddenly felt as though he observed his old friend from a great distance. He recognized that, had Skallagrim openly shared his captive, she would find no rest to her days for the ceaseless demands of men like Stefnir.

“
Nei
.” He concealed his disgust. “There are matters I need attend to for now.”

“
Mayhap we can enjoy a bladder of wine before I leave to rejoin the king’s fleet,” Stefnir called cheerfully as he started for the portal. “You have yet to tell me of the maids of Francia.”

Pausing, he put one hand to the door
’s framework and glanced back. “One caution, friend. Should you harbor thoughts to gain the maid, watch Hakon. I believe he means to have her, regardless of his uncle’s plans.”

Lyting nodded gravely, then took his leave. As earlier, he walked
for atime, his thoughts chasing round and round as he wrestled with what he deemed a most unreasonable urge to protect the maid. He reminded himself that she belonged to Skallagrim. Reminded himself that he purposed to set his path for Corbie upon his return to Normandy.

He remained unappeased, a storm of unrest gathering in his soul.

Was it God’s design or Devil’s temptation that his path should cross with this woman’s? Soul and flesh, ever the struggle. Deep within, he sensed ‘twould be an age before he regained his heart’s peace.

Climbing to the top of the earthenworks, he surprised the watchman. After an exchange of greetings, he remained and faced seaward, tracing the ribbon of the Schlei to where it disappeared into the distance.

Thoughtfully he scanned the masts of the
drakken
moored in the harbor.

Turning slowly
around, Lyting drifted his gaze over the crowded rooftops of Hedeby. Somewhere beneath their thatched crowns dwelled the maid of his enchantment.

»«

Ailinn thrashed within the grip of the two Norsewomen as they strove to force her onto her back upon one of the room’s two raised side-floors.

‘
Twas only a matter of moments before they would fell her to their purposes, Ailinn knew. There was no escape. Only brief victory, vanished in a blink-of-eye. The sow she’d first encountered before the portal now grabbed at her ankles, intent on snatching her from her feet. But they would not have her so easily. They would taste her mettle and know the fires that forge the Irish.

Ailinn twisted and kicked free of the sow, her feet slapping down atop the platform. The other two women stepped up, onto the planking, dragging her with them.

A dark blade of fear rode Ailinn as she strained against them. Did they aim to harm her? Prepare her for some grim Nordic ritual? Sacrifice her to the gods? Her thoughts strayed to the poor ox outside the door.

Summoning her strength, Ailinn threw her weight to one side, propelling herself and her unwanted companions off balance. As one, they crashed into the loom that stood braced at the end of the flooring. The piece tottered, one of its uprights dropping off the edge of the settle, then keeled sideways and clattered to the floor.

Ailinn grimaced as the Norsewomen wrenched her arms, one seizing a fistful of her hair and jerking her head backward.

The sow stumped forward, drawing back her hand, wide and open-palmed. Ailinn braced herself for the blow. Just as the hand began to fall, Skallagrim roared from his chair.

Thora
. The sow had a name. Ailinn gasped for breath. Like Hakon, the woman yielded to the chieftain’s will.

Slowly Skallagrim rose to his feet, pegging Ailinn with his eyes. He started forward with purposeful steps.

The women eased their hold a fraction, then slammed Ailinn flat against the wall where the loom had been and held her there. Ailinn stifled her cry as pain fractured the back of her head and splintered down her spine.

Skallagrim
’s shadow fell across her. For a moment he stood, breathing down upon her. For all her worth, Ailinn could not still the tremors in her legs.

A wave of terror crested through her as Skallagrim unsheathed the knife at his waist. Firelight glinted along its honed edge as he brought the steel within view. Turning the blade, he pressed its cold shaft against her throat,

Ailinn swallowed beneath the thirsting metal as his meaty fist moved to the top of her gown. With a swift, stout yank he ripped the fabric from her breasts. Ailinn squeezed her eyes shut, the tear of cloth filling her ears as he stripped away its full length.

Cool air rushed over her bared flesh. She sought to distance herself, mind and soul, from her vile plight, but Skallagrim jolted her back. Dropping the shorn gown in a heap at her feet, he seized upon the remnants yet trapped at her back. They joined the rest in a puddle as he pulled her from the wall and lowered the blade to rest between her breasts.

Fear stalked through Ailinn. She forced her eyes to meet his, craving to slice him through with her contempt, yet knowing she did no more than amuse him for she could not win past her panic.

Skallagrim regarded her stolidly, his eyes unstirred in their depths. Closing his hand over hers, he isolated one finger and applied precise and calculated pressure to the joint.

Pain shot through Ailinn’s hand and traveled along her arm. Her knees doubled beneath her, and she dropped to the flooring.

Instantly the women pushed her onto her back and held her by neck, arms, and shoulders. The sow, Thora, forced her legs apart and held them as Skallagrim knelt before her. Ailinn stiffened as hands touched her. She steeled herself for the coming pain, then sickened before the promise of a torturous death. She was a weak-kneed creature after all, she decided
, closing her eyes. May Saint Pádraig and the Heavenly Host conduct her swiftly to her reward.

No pain followed. Only the grunt of the sow. Ailinn peered through her lashes. The woman nodded her affirmation at something while Skallagrim likewise indicated his approval. At that they released her legs, and she found herself hauled upright and set to her feet.

Ailinn stood before Skallagrim, her cheeks burning hot. She sought to cover herself with her hands, neither shred of cloth nor scrap of modesty left to her. He roamed an eye over her, smiling within his beard. Once more he growled his approval, then moved apart. Taking a small caldron from over the fires, he added its contents to an oaken tub that stood toward the opposite end of the room.

Incredulous, Ailinn allowed herself to be led forward without further struggle and watched as Thora sprinkled petals and herbs over the inviting waters. They meant to bathe her!

Rapidly she pieced together bits and fragments of the past days. Skallagrim did not appear intent on ravishing her himself and withheld her from his men. Nor would he allow the woman, Thora, to strike her. But why? She was but a slave now. Was there some reason he did not wish her marred?

And what of their crude examination of he
r? Her cheeks flamed anew. Did they inspect the proof of her maidenhood? Praise God that she was yet chaste. What would have befallen her had the evidence no longer been intact? What would befall her now that it was?

One of the blond giants prodded her from behind and gestured that she step into the tub. Ailinn complied, knowing herself to be in dire need of a thorough scrubbing.

The next moment she reconsidered, wincing at the heat of the water. Immediately the women surrounded her. Scooping up handfuls of soft soap from bowls, they lathered her from head to toe, none too gently, then doused her with bucketfuls of clean water and repeated the process.

Ailinn spluttered beneath the second downpour. Parting the sopping hair from her face, she discovered Hakon leaning against the open door. Before she could cross her hands over her breasts, an expanse of cloth snapped open in front of her, blocking the view. Ailinn looked up to find Skallagrim outstretching a great square of linen. He did not trust Hakon, either, she decided as she rose on shaky legs and stepped into the folds.

Skallagrim left her to the women’s ministrations as he proceeded to the portal and set Hakon to some task outside the building. While Skallagrim yet turned from them, the two Norse “guardswomen” dried Ailinn roughly, whispering and tittering among themselves as they yanked her hair and pinched her flesh.

Skallagrim caught the last of this and drove them from the house at full bellow. He then harangued Thora at length, pointing to
Ailinn, then to the door, and at times, the rafters and floor. Ailinn understood none of it yet dared not move. She stood clutching the linen about her till Skallagrim ceased his rantings and, at last, motioned that she wait upon the settle.

Thora notched her chin, her ire fermenting as she crossed to the back of the room. Withdrawing a shapeless tunic from a chest that stood there, she returned and thrust it in Ailinn
’s face.

Fish eyes, Ailinn
thought as she slipped the garment over her head beneath Thora’s cold and glassy stare. But when the cloth’s harsh texture sent a rash up her throat and provoked her to scratching, Skallagrim ordered her remove it and set to searching through his own sea chest.

Ailinn
’s heart strained as he brought forth objects that once graced Mór’s hall. Finding a garment, he withdrew it and bore it to her, a soft-green gown — her stepaunt’s, Murieann’s. A fresh shaft of pain pierced Ailinn’s heart and continued on to her soul.

Tears welled as she drew on the gown. Murieann was slight in build like her youngest daughter, Lia, though Deira
stood taller.
Was.
Ailinn shivered as she tugged down the fabric and fretted anew for her stepcousins. The hems fell far short of ankle and wrist.

Skallagrim returned to the sea chest and brought forth
an elegant cordage, a braided piece of varied colors and fine needlework, meant to cincture a dress. This, too, she recognized as Murieann’s. As he started toward her, Thora caught at his sleeve, desiring the girdle for herself. But Skallagrim shrugged her off with a growl and bore the piece to Ailinn. When he turned around, Thora stood over his sea chest, unfolding the bridal mantle.

Ailinn clutched the girdle to her breast as Skallagrim howled at Thora and tromped back across the room. But Thora found her voice and matched him for volume. Like a badger with its catch, she clung to the e
legant cloak and would not let it go.