Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] (8 page)

But he was not the only unexpected visitor. Dozens of other nobles with their wives and retainers had crowded the small chapel and now graced the hall.
St. Bridget’s Bones!
It was just what she did not need—more witnesses to her deceit. Even the politically powerful Archbishop Wulfstan and an entourage of his clerics had come from Jorvik to perform the
holy rites. Surely some lowly village chaplain would have sufficed for this loveless alliance.

Eadyth waved her hand in chagrin to encompass the crowded hall and highborn guests on the dais.
By the Virgin’s Breath!
Somehow Eirik had even come up with white cloths to cover the high tables. Sparkling silver mazers and small hand cloths graced every other place setting for washing fingers between courses. And the vast array of foods, well, he must have spent his last coin to provide this wasteful excess, Eadyth muttered to herself.

“Eirik knew I preferred a quiet ceremony, not this farce of a celebration,” she complained aloud.

Tykir grinned.

Lord, did bone-melting handsomeness run in Eirik’s family? She would have to hide all the comely maids in the keep over the age of fourteen. Oh, he looked naught like Eirik, but he was wildly attractive in his own way. Where Eirik had black hair and pale blue eyes, his younger brother was a true Viking with long, blond hair down to his shoulders, eyes so light a shade of brown that they almost appeared golden, skin sun-bronzed from riding the waves on his longship, a massive, battle-conditioned body, and a smile that could charm the very teeth from a dragon. Even worse, the rascal had braided his magnificent hair on one side, exposing an ear adorned with, of all things, a thunderbolt earring.

When she arched an eyebrow with amused interest, Tykir jiggled it slightly with a forefinger. “’Tis a legacy from my father. Eirik got the dragon brooch. I got the earring.”

Eadyth could not help but smile and shook her head in mock dismay. “You are just as frivolous as your brother.”

“My brother, frivolous? Nay, you do not know him well if you think him so. He has always been stone-cold serious, even when he had only passed ten winters and chose to live in King Athelstan’s Saxon court.” He tweaked her cheek and remarked, “You wed the wrong brother if ’tis a lighthearted nature you seek in your husband.”

Eadyth laughed at his playful attitude, but she was not
amused when she darted a livid glance to her right side where Eirik sat with his back to her. He talked earnestly with Earl Orm, a wealthy Northumbrian landowner of Norse descent whose estates joined his on the south. He had come with his half-Saxon daughter Aldgyth, whom Eadyth had met in the old days when she went to court. Aldgyth was the widow of Anlaf Guthfrithsson, who had been Norse king of Northumbria for a short time before his death. Also joining in the conversation with Orm and her husband was Anlaf Sigtryggsson, the sometime king of all Dublin, and the current aspiring Norse ruler of Northumbria.

Good Lord!
“I am surprised he did not invite the king of Norway, as well. Or King Edmund, for that matter,” Eadyth grumbled sarcastically.

“Uncle Haakon is hunting wild boar this week and could not come,” Tykir said drolly, then smirked, obviously pleased with Eadyth’s quick intake of breath. “And Edmund, well, I would not have come if he were here—the bloody Saxon bastard.”

Eadyth exhaled loudly with disgust.

“You are upset that Eirik honors you by inviting his friends to your wedding feast?”

“Yea, I am. He humiliates me by pretending happiness in our wedding. Everyone knows just by looking at me that ’tis a mismatch, that there must be some hidden reason why he would wed such as me.”

“How so?”

“Oh, really! Just look at us. He struts like a proud raven in all his finery. And me?” She looked down at herself in self-disdain. “I, my friend, am just a crow.”

Tykir tilted his head questioningly and reached out to finger the unique head-rail she had designed to match her wedding garment. Girta had helped her fashion the tunic and over-tunic from a deep violet samite fabric, then embroidered the edges with silver threads in a design of intertwined lilies. A narrow silver circlet held in place a head-rail made of double layers of the diaphanous material she used for her beekeeping veils,
which she had dyed a pale lavender.

She had known Eirik would take insult if she wore her usual drab garb and so she had compromised. She had even washed the pig grease from her hair, although she had slicked it back under a white wimple with an odorless ointment Girta had made for her.

Eadyth tried to shrug Tykir’s fingers from her head-rail. She had practiced before a polished metal the past two sennights how to drape the material across her face to hide her features, how to maintain a constant stoop and a perpetual scowl. She hoped most people would think she was demurely attempting to hide her homeliness. The cackling voice was harder to keep up.

“Why wouldst my brother need an excuse to marry a beautiful woman like you?”

Eadyth gasped and finally managed to pull away from Tykir’s fingers, bending her posture. He was too observant by far.

“Beautiful? Heh, heh, heh! There is naught of beauty in me these days.”

Tykir snorted rudely.

“You must share my Lord Eirik’s dim-sightedness. ’Tis true I had rare beauty long ago. Some even called me The Silver Jewel of Northumbria. But now…,” she trailed off with a shrug, looking down at her body as if it spoke for itself.

At first, Tykir just stared at her with a puzzled frown, furrowing his brow. “My vision is perfect, and Eirik’s impairment is only slight. Do you jest with me?” Then, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him, he asked incredulously, “Or do you play this charade for my brother?”

Before she had a chance to mask her dismay, Tykir broke out in a fit of laughter. Eirik and Earl Orm turned their way, but Tykir just waved their curious stares aside, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

Eadyth hissed under her breath, “Halt, at once. ’Tis not as you think, you bloody fool.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, my lady,” he hooted gleefully. “’Tis exactly as I think. You are playing a grand jest on my brother.”

“Nay.”

“Yea.”

“My hair is gray.”

“’Tis silver blonde under all that grease, I warrant.”

“My shoulders are stooped.”

“Hah! Your breasts are magnificent.”

Eadyth cringed with dismay at his impudent words. “I have age spots all over my body,” she said lamely, her spirits sinking desperately.

“If ’tis an age spot that adorns your upper lip, I warrant my brother will pay homage to it with his tongue afore this night ends, or he is not the man I know him to be.”

Eadyth groaned aloud. “My skin is wrinkled,” she protested, trying to maintain the scowl she had kept on her face the entire day. In truth, her face ached from the strain of her forced efforts.

Tykir’s lips tilted in a disbelieving smile.

Her shoulders slumped finally in defeat as she realized she was fighting a lost battle with Tykir. He knew the truth.

“Does anyone else suspect?”

Tykir shook his head slowly from side to side.

“What did I do wrong?”

“You did naught. But you apparently forgot that we met many years ago at Hawks’ Lair when I was but a child, accompanying my grandfather Dar. I knew afore I came today that you are younger than me, and I have seen only twenty-nine winters.”

Eadyth exhaled on a deep sigh.

“Just how old dost my brother think you are?”

Eadyth waved a hand airily in resignation. “Forty or thereabouts, I presume,” she admitted with disgust.

“Forty!” Tykir choked out. “Forty! Surely, he is not
that
dull-headed.”

“He is not a lackwit. ’Tis just that I worked hard to portray
that image, and we were only together a few times. Circumstances helped my cause.”

“But why?”

“Oh, I do not know. I never planned to deceive him, but when I realized on our first meeting that he thought me older…well, it seemed to be a good way of forestalling his…”

Tykir arched a brow questioningly.

Eadyth shifted uncomfortably, then blurted out, “…of forestalling his lustful gropings.”

Laughing, Tykir remarked, “Yea, my brother’s ‘gropings’ do tend to be lustful on occasion.”

“Oh, it has naught to do with Eirik. ’Tis any man. I try my best not to attract men. Any man.”

Tykir seemed about to say more on the subject, then stopped himself. “How long do you think you can continue this ruse?”

“I do not know,” Eadyth cried despairingly. “It has gone too far.”

Tykir shook his head with concern. “My brother is slow to anger, but a lion when provoked. And, I warn you, sister, Eirik is very sensitive about his poor sight. You play a foolish game.”

Eadyth felt a weight on her right arm and turned to see Eirik’s hand laid possessively on her sleeve. She started and forced herself not to pull away in distaste.

“My lady, share your pleasantries with me,” Eirik demanded huskily. “I would know what tale prompts Tykir’s gales of laughter.”

Eadyth shot a pleading look at Tykir, who hesitated, then nodded at her unspoken plea. He told his brother, “’Tis our secret, brother—mine and Eadyth’s—one I expect to laugh about with you in years to come. But not now. Nay, not quite yet.”

Eadyth breathed a deep sigh of relief. She was safe. For now.

But then Tykir added mischievously, “I know a skald in
Dublin with a talent for putting words to true events. Methinks I have the bones of a saga to carry to him next trip.”

Eirik raised an eyebrow at his brother’s apparent deviltry. “Wouldst I like the saga?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

Eadyth cringed with foreboding.

“And Eadyth?” he asked suspiciously. “Will she enjoy the tale, as well?”

“My brother,” Tykir said, laughing as he patted Eirik on the back, “methinks she will relish it best of all.”

Eirik watched Tykir and his wife suspiciously. She relaxed with his brother in a way she never had with him, as if they shared some great secret.

He had worried sorely over Tykir’s fate these past nine years since he had almost lost his leg in “The Great Battle.” And then word had filtered to Eirik earlier this year in Frankland that King Edmund had invaded the Celtic kingdom of Strathclyde and overrun all of Cumberland. In the end, Edmund had instilled Malcolm as the new ruler of all Scotland on the condition that Malcolm help him fight the Norse invaders on sea and land. And if anyone could be called Norse invader, it was his brother Tykir.

Thank the Lord, Eirik had been across the channel and able to avoid fighting at his Saxon king’s side at Brunanburh and then again in Strathclyde. He had pledged his loyalty to both brothers, Athelstan and Edmund, and had proven himself in many a battle, but he refused to fight his own kin.

Well, Tykir’s limp was barely noticeable now. Eirik was delighted to see his brother, though he’d been as surprised as
his wife when Tykir interrupted their wedding ceremony.

His wife!
Bloody Hell! The words had an awful ring, like a death knell. He turned back to her with a frown, knowing he had avoided this moment too long.

“Eadyth, ’tis time. Get the boy and bring him to me. And Larise, as well.”

He saw a look of alarm sweep across her face, but she forced back her fear bravely and nodded her assent. Her eyes scanned the hall and found her son John sitting below them at the first table, his head nodding with sleepiness. Eirik’s eight-year-old daughter, on the other hand, who had come with Earl Orm, was enjoying every moment of her first nighttime feast. Her head swiveled back and forth on her birdlike neck as she tried to soak in all the wondrous sights around her, and she talked like a magpie to the uninterested young knight at her side.

Tykir slid into Eadyth’s chair as she walked stiff-backed off the dais to fetch the children, snubbed by the highborn people she passed on the way. Eirik had already spoken with his knights and vassals about the respect he expected them to show his wife. But Eirik could not control his guests, and he noted the way they eyed Eadyth condescendingly, making no pretense of their disapproval. The women snickered behind their hands as she passed; the men eyed her with disdain.

Eirik’s eyes narrowed angrily. There would be some prices to pay when this wedding feast was over, he vowed.

“So, my brother,” Tykir drawled, “now that I have spoken with Eadyth, I better understand your change of mind about marriage. Are you happy in the match?”

Eirik raised an eyebrow skeptically at Tykir’s approval.

“Did you notice the sway of her hips when she walked in front of us through the chapel doors this morn?”

“Sway! Your mind must be muddled with mead. That woman never swayed a day in her life. Besides, she has no hips to speak of.”

“And her lips! By all the gods! They certainly look kissable.”

“Did our father perchance drop you on your head when you were a babe?”

“Oh. Mayhap I was mistaken.”

Eirik could see the spark of deviltry twinkling in his brother’s eyes. “What are you up to now?”

“Me? You wound me, brother, with your mistrust.”

“Hah! I would wound your head if I thought ’twould shake up your senses. Where in bloody hell have you been these past years?”

Tykir shrugged. “Here and there.”

“I have been worried, you lackwit, especially after I met up with Selik in Jorvik last month. He and Rain told me you were raiding in the midlands with Anlaf. Canst you not stay home in Norway where you belong?”

“Home? I have no home.” Tykir’s face turned somber.

“Tykir, I have told you repeatedly that Ravenshire is your home if you do not want to live in Norway, but—”

Tykir put a hand up to halt his words, then forced a lightness into his voice as he commented, “Did you know that Rain is breeding again? Hell’s flames! Selik walks around like a lackwit all the time with a smile plastered over his face. You would think he had invented the making of babes.”

Eirik nodded, with a smile. Their father’s friend Selik had looked over them protectively after their father’s death when they were only boys. Later, he’d married their half sister.

“Those two breed babes like rabbits,” Tykir continued to grumble. “Five of their own, including the one in the oven, and dozens of orphans.”

“Yea, the noise in their orphanage is enough to make one’s ears bleed, but I give them credit. Selik and Rain seem to love each other as much as the day they wed almost ten years ago.”

“Mayhap if they loved each other a mite less, Jorvik would be a little less crowded.” Changing the subject, Tykir asked, “Have you noticed how well my leg has healed since Brunanburh? I have only a slight limp now. And the maids seem to like it greatly.”

Eirik shook his head in mock despair and gave his brother a playful shove on the arm. God’s Bones! He wished Tykir would be more careful. After all, other than his daughters, Tykir was the only close family he had left. He corrected himself immediately. Nay, he had other family now. He had a wife. And a son.

Would they be a blessing or a curse? he wondered.

“You asked if I am happy in my match with Eadyth. The answer is nay, but I have resigned myself to the marriage in the three sennights of Eadyth’s absence,” he said warily. “You know the true reasons for my decision to marry.”

Tykir nodded. “Do you think you will ever be able to put Steven and his evil misdeeds behind you, brother?”

“Not ’til the worms are eating his putrid flesh. Not ’til his soul languishes in hell.”

“Selik was able to give up his quest for vengeance. Why cannot you?”

“Would you?”

“Nay, but I am the bloodthirsty brother. Remember?” He flashed a teasing grin, then turned serious again. “Will you use the boy as bait to lure Steven out into the open?”

“Yea. Steven apparently needs a son to ensure his Odel rights to his grandfather’s lands in Frankland. I truly believe John will be the means for Steven’s downfall. But, Tykir, do not think I would sacrifice the child. John is not to blame for his father’s evil. I will guard him well.”

“And what of your new wife?” Tykir asked with casualness, deliberately changing the subject as an odd little smile twitched at his lips. “Does her age not bother you? Or her, well, less than comely attributes?”

Eirik was wary. He knew his brother too well, and the secretive gleam in his sparkling eyes bespoke mischief.

“Her age and physical appearance do not bother me overmuch. You know I married a young, beautiful maid of pure reputation once, and soon discovered utter misery. This time I made a choice based on logic.” He shrugged. “Even so, ’tis sore hard to accustom myself to the unpleasantness of
Eadyth’s nature. Does she have to scowl constantly? And her voice! Its shrillness makes my hair stand on end.”

Tykir choked on the mead he had been drinking, and Eirik tilted his head in suspicion once again. Tykir was hiding something. What could it be? Did it involve Eadyth and that laughing fit Tykir had just engaged in?

Hesitantly, he went on, “I find myself touched that she has taken some care with her appearance today. Hell’s Flames! You should have seen her three sennights ago. Ugly as a mud hen and twice as mean.”

“And now?” Tykir raised an eyebrow with exaggerated interest.

“Now, leastways, her silk gown is obviously newly made, and the odd head-rail adds a girlish attraction to the garment, especially when she pulls it over her lower face. Dost think she is basically shy under her arrogant exterior?”

Tykir’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Hah! More like an houri in an eastern harem I once visited.”

Eirik smiled at that unlikely comparison and shook his head woefully. “Eadyth, a harem slave? Hardly. She would, no doubt, cause a revolt within a week.”

“Eirik, do not be too harsh in judging your new wife,” Tykir advised in a suddenly serious tone. “Despite her facade of strength and self-sufficiency, I sense a deep hurt inside.”

“You underestimate my insight, brother. The vulnerability that Eadyth fails to hide on the odd occasion touches me, too. Didst see her face earlier when I introduced her to Earl Orm and his daughter Aldgyth? They treated her with bare civility.”

“Yea, if you had not been standing at Eadyth’s side, I warrant Orm and his bloody daughter would have snubbed her, but, hypocrites that they are, they put on false smiles.”

Eirik shrugged. “They need my support in their political intrigues. I know that well. They will not insult her outright. And Archbishop Wulfstan, that wily priest, look how he works his way amongst the crowd below in his plot to overturn Saxon rule in Northumbria.”

“Yea, he performed the wedding ceremony, but even he could barely hide his disapproval of the match and Eadyth’s scandalous past. Shall I chop off his head for you?”

Eirik grinned at his brother. “Nay, you bloodthirsty fool, though I, too, feel the urge to protect her. This wedding feast has given me a tiny glimpse of what Eadyth’s life must have been these past eight years—snickers, judging stares, shunning.”

“And you know all too well how cruel the high-blown Saxon nobility can be, my brother. How you stood it so long I will never know.”

Eirik nodded at the unwelcome memories Tykir’s words brought forth. “I would be a fool not to be drawn by Eadyth’s strength of character in withstanding their ill treatment. I can only wonder what pain my wife has suffered that she holds inside still.”

“Mayhap her only armor is the brittle shell she draws around her soft inner core?”

Eirik had not thought of that before, but decided Tykir was probably right.

“And do you wish to discover that inner Eadyth?” Tykir asked with a jiggle of his eyebrows.

Eirik laughed. “Oh, I will discover Eadyth’s ‘inner’ secrets this night. You can be sure of that. But, if you speak of that part of herself she attempts to hide, know this: a man protects those under his shield, and I may not be able to erase past mistakes, but I will make sure that no one hurts her again. And that includes Steven of Gravely.”

“And how will you sweeten her unpleasant nature?”

Eirik shook his head at that awesome task. “I will be gone from Ravenshire much of the time. Even now, I await word from Edmund. He moves his armies to…” Eirik let his words trail off, realizing he should not divulge such information to his brother, whose allegiances often differed from his. “Tykir, promise you will leave Britain and stay out of the fight to come.”

Tykir refused to commit himself, and instead asked, “Do
you not ever tire of this double role you play, brother? You cannot always walk the middle road betwixt Saxon and Viking causes. Someday you will have to choose, and if these highborn guests here have their way, it will be soon. A battle approaches for control of Northumbria. On which side will you ride?”

“I truly do not know. But know this—I owed much to King Athelstan and I promised on his deathbed to support his brother Edmund, as well. I will not break my oath of loyalty to him, but I will not ever fight against you, my brother.”

“Ah, Eirik, why do you always make life so complicated? ’Tis a simple choice, really. Are you Norseman or Saxon?”

“That is where you are wrong. I am both. And well you know that men of our time give loyalty to leaders, not countries.” He stood then and squeezed his brother’s hand warmly. “But no more of this. ’Tis my wedding, a night to rejoice,” he said dryly. “Come stand with me whilst I raise a toast.”

“Yea, but first let us have a personal toast atween the two of us,” Tykir said solemnly, touching his goblet to his brother’s. “Know that this wife you have chosen is indeed the Silver Jewel of Northumbria under all her tarnish. May you be the true Norseman I know you to be deep down, one who values women for their true worth, not the surface glitter.”

Eirik arched his eyebrows in disbelief. “Words fine enough for a poet, my brother. Have you been traveling with that warrior-skald Egil Skallagrimmson again?”

Tykir shook his head and laughed.

“Why, then, do I find it hard to believe that the man known for bedding the most beautiful women in every land is suddenly a connoisseur of inner worth?”

“Nay,” Tykir said, laughing, “you misread me. I did not say beauty was unimportant, just that ofttimes a man is, shall we say,
blind
to the beauty shining in his face.”

“You speak in riddles, Tykir. Mayhap you have had too much mead to drink. I am not blind.”

Tykir choked and sprayed Eirik with a shower of mead.

Brushing the wetness off his chest, Eirik shot him a look of disgust. “And speaking of beautiful women, Tykir, stay away from Britta. She is Wilfrid’s leman.”

They laughed together companionably, then stood as Eadyth approached, clasping on each side the hands of her son John and Eirik’s daughter Larise.

Larise’s blue eyes adored her father with childish worship. He felt guilty at his long neglect of his oldest child and was happy that Earl Orm had brought her home this morn—for good. Despite all his annoyance, he owed the earl much for his fine care of his daughter these many years.

His eyes turned to John. The seven-year-old boy was thin, like his mother, and would probably be as tall as he himself one day. In truth, Eadyth had been right. The boy’s black hair and pale blue eyes matched his perfectly.

He should hate this son of his worst enemy, but somehow Eirik could not blame the boy for his father’s sins. He held out a hand toward John, and the boy huddled closer to his mother’s knees, turning frightened, questioning eyes up to her. She nodded gravely and shoved him gently forward.

Eirik put an arm comfortingly around John’s shoulder and pulled Eadyth to his other side, and tucked her, as well, under his other arm.

Eirik motioned Tykir and Larise to stand on either side of John and Eadyth. Then they all turned to face the great hall, waiting for the silence of his retainers and guests.

When absolute quiet prevailed, Eirik said in a clear, authoritative voice that resounded across the length of the hall, “My friends and loyal supporters, I give you my wife, Eadyth of Ravenshire.” He leaned down and kissed her cool lips in homage before she could jerk back in surprise. The crowd did not seem to notice her instinctive reaction. It cheered, raising goblets in a toast to the newly wedded couple.