Undercurrent (13 page)

Alarik’s relative, identified now as Kier, his older brother, lugged over a barrel and sat facing him. She tried to decipher their dialogue until her temples started to throb, and then turned her attention elsewhere. The woman who’d tended the fire brought them each a wooden mug, finely carved, with a hot, spicy brew. By the time Cassie finished the cider-type drink, the woman had disappeared into a darker recess where the weak lamplight couldn’t reach.

And still the men talked.

She let her head rest against the timber-and-chink wall. Closing her eyes, she could almost imagine herself back in her apartment, on her own woven blanket she kept draped over the back of the couch. Except for the men’s incessant gabbing.

Shifting, she jiggled her foot that had gone to sleep. Numbness gave way to sharp pricks, stealing her comfort. Story of her life, lately. How had things gone so wrong? Fuzzier thoughts blending cell phones and brooches with condos and longhouses made no sense whatsoever as her eyelids drooped. When her chin met her chest, she jerked her head upright, only to repeat the process each time fatigue snuck past her defenses. Third time around she snorted. Great. Now she sounded like Tammy.

The men’s talking ceased, and they frowned at her. After jabbering half the night and keeping her awake, they had the nerve to frown at her? She scowled right back. Kier blinked, but Alarik smiled. Silence ensued for a moment, and then their talk resumed. If she weren’t so tired, she’d scream.

Twice more she wavered in and out of semi-consciousness before the brothers finally stood and clasped forearms, speaking of sleep, or salmon, or maybe splinters…hard to tell when she couldn’t think straight anymore. Who was she kidding? Even thinking straight she’d be hard pressed to understand their language.

Only two lamps remained burning, and Kier moved toward one. Good. Now maybe they’d leave, and she could get some sleep. She swung her feet up and rolled over to face the wall, choosing to curl up on top of the blanket. Who knew what kind of bedbugs lurked beneath. Her eyes closed before the last lantern dimmed—then popped open when an insistent nudge and warm body met her back to back, shoving her against the oak-slabbed wall.

She tensed, coiling her muscles to break free like an unwound spring. Any second now she’d…what? Run out the door and go where?

Funny how Alarik’s even breathing behind her didn’t send off alarm bells. She must’ve moved into the beyond-tired-don’t-care state of consciousness.

She’d care tomorrow; that’s it. As she matched the rhythm of her breaths to his, her muscles slackened. Yes, a good night’s sleep would recharge her thinking capabilities, and she’d figure out what the deal was with the freak show she’d found herself trapped in.

Then she could go home. Hopefully.

“
Ragnar, we there yet?”

“
Nay, Magnus. Keep on.” Ragnar sighed, trying to exhale the nipping irritation gnawing at his patience. Six solid days of parrying the giant man’s sole question had surely refined his character. By the time they reached Jorvik five days hence, he would no doubt be a candidate for sainthood.

Sweet woodruff balanced the peppery smell released by his crushing steps through Engla-lond’s undergrowth. The verdant forest, a late morning sun playing seek and find behind leafy branches, even feathered minstrels singing praise songs all served to lighten his heavy mood. Until a rude odor destroyed the moment.

“
Magnus?”

The big man glanced back but kept walking.

“
I asked you to leave off the dried beans in your pouch.” No answer, but he could see Magnus fumbling with something in front of him.

“
Magnus not eating beans.”

Of course not. He’d already swallowed and tucked away the rest. Ragnar smiled. How could he not? Better to enjoy the humor of a situation than brood on the bad elements.

And he was so tired of brooding. Since hearing of his father’s death, he’d done nothing but. It surprised him, this grief. He thought he’d mastered the emotion long ago. His mother’s passing, the rejection from his father, suffering a scarred deformity, for all these he had grieved. But none compared to the sorrow that settled deep in his bones from knowing he’d never reconcile with Gerlaich.

“
Ragnar, we there—”

“
Magnus, how about…” Exactly. How about what? The big man needed a distraction. Even he could use one. “How about we set up camp early and catch some fish? Tastier than beans, ja?”

Magnus turned, a huge grin reaching his eyes, and smacked his lips. “Magnus like fish. Which way?”

A winding river should’ve been two stones’ throw to the east, but upon arriving at that distance, more woodlands greeted them. Ragnar circled, keeping his keen eye fixed on the surroundings. Nothing looked familiar. He’d been so preoccupied with his own dark thoughts that he’d gotten them lost.

Jesu, forgive me. All I’ve focused on is myself, my pain. Retrain my mind on you and lead us on.

“
Ragnar, we—”

“
Show me how you can climb that tree.” He indicated a large but manageable oak with a nod of his head. “And when you get up high, tell me what you see.”

“
But Magnus want fish.”

“
Fish you shall have, my friend.” Ragnar patted his back, nudging him toward the oak. “First you must find us the river.”

For such a large man, Magnus scaled the trunk with surprising agility. Bits of bark and errant twigs rained down on Ragnar’s head.

“
Magnus see much green.” The words fell with a few leaf fronds.

“
Look all around. Do you see a rise anywhere?”

“
I see, I see…” More twigs snapped. “Uh-oh!”

A loud crack like a felled tree accompanied the startled exclamation. Ragnar dodged away lest he find himself squashed beneath the hairy Northman.

Magnus fell in a jumble of limbs and leaves. Raking a glance from head to boot, Ragnar rushed over and bent to one knee, assessing if any body parts bent at odd angles or bone showed through ripped fabric. “Magnus? You all right?”

Winded, but conscious, Magnus pushed himself to a sitting position. His heaving chest slowed to a regular rhythm, and a slow smile crept over his dazed face. “That a surprise, Ragnar.”

A chuckle, genuine and unexpected, escaped from the cage of misery that had trapped Ragnar the past six days. It started small and continued to grow until he held his side and had to wipe the corner of his eye.

Magnus joined in until they could barely breathe. “It good to hear you laugh again.”

“’
Tis good indeed to laugh again, my friend.” It truly was. Like Magnus, he’d been bruised but not broken. The intensity of losing his father had shaken him, yet he remained solid, grounded by his faith in a greater Father that loved him. Aye, he’d learned to laugh again, and he would, at least until the next inevitable, “Ragnar, we there yet?”

Or the unavoidable awkward moment when he’d catch up with Alarik—his father’s murderer.

TWELVE

When Cassie awoke, morning sun filtered through a hole at the gable end of the roof. Not that it did much to illuminate the room. Small slits in the walls with cloth covers added nothing to the meager light, either. A fire in the hearth burned low, giving off more smoke than anything.

Wow. She’d never appreciated central heating as much as now. Her eyes stung and she sat up, rubbing away the grime left over from sleep.

An oil lamp burned on a shelf across the room. A sooty black spiral danced above the wick, competing with the lamp’s luminescent halo. The uncertain light wavered as if debating which direction to take—brightness or darkness. What direction indeed. She should leave, but where to go and how to get there? Normally she abhorred indecisiveness. Too bad normal was a thing of the past.

The past. She’d hoped this historical nightmare would be gone when she awoke, but it stared her in the face with all its odorous, uncomfortable glory. It didn’t seem to bother anyone else, though at the moment only Cassie haunted the empty room. Where was Alarik?

A compelling itch tingled beneath her leg, forcing her to move. She stood and scratched, trying not to think of fleas, then shrugged off the cloak she’d been wrapped in. Straightening her tattered skirt with one hand, she smoothed the dirty wrinkles on her blouse with her other. The desire for a bath and fresh change of clothes made up her mind. She’d find Alarik, say good-bye, then find some way to get home. How exactly to get from 1000 AD England would be a stickler, but no way would she give in to the despair of being stranded here.

As she neared the front door, muffled street sounds grew louder. Not cars or airplanes, but horses neighing and rumbling wagon wheels. And even louder came a creak of hinges from behind.

She turned, and across the room a boy entered. Enormous brown eyes stared at her from beneath a tangle of unkempt hair. The same smudged face she’d seen the night before peered at her for an instant before disappearing out the back door.

The thief! Rotten kid.

She sprinted forward, determined to retrieve her bracelet from the little criminal even if she had to shake it out of him. They bolted into a backyard, or more like a farmyard with chickens and pigs rooting around and a large rubbish pit taking up one corner beside a muddy-looking stream. A flurry of white feathers flapped near her feet, but she would not be stopped. She barreled across the gently sloping yard, gaining on the boy as he darted toward one of the few buildings dotting the open space. This time there’d be no escaping down a dark alley for the little weasel. But all the same, Cassie pulled up short before she reached him.

The boy dodged behind a big man who’d stepped out from a workshop. A sharp drawknife dangled from his hand, and he wasn’t smiling. Cassie sucked in a breath as his eyes locked onto hers. The boy’s father. Kier.

Probably not the best time to turn the kid upside down and shake loose her bracelet.

Peeking from behind his dad-shield, the boy stuck out his tongue. Hooligan. The kid needed a major time-out or a spanking or something. But what could she do with a human and a language barrier between her and the brat?

She planted her feet and crossed her arms. She’d have to try to explain the situation in her pathetic Old Norse or Old English or whatever the man spoke. As she opened her mouth, the boy blanched and shrank back. Strange. Her teacher-with-an-attitude stance usually inspired intimidation, not fear.

A familiar rumbling voice sounded behind her. No wonder. It wasn’t her the kid was afraid of. She turned to face Alarik.

“
That boy”—she hitched a thumb over her shoulder—“took my bracelet. Remember my bracelet?” She held up her arm and pointed at her barren wrist.

His eyes traveled to her arm, then back again to her face. He said nothing, which heightened her annoyance.

“
He stole it! Can you get it back for me?”

A half-smile lifted one side of his mouth and he nodded. Sprinting feet hit the dirt behind her, and soon Alarik held the collar of the wriggling kid.

He’d actually understood her? She grinned, thrilled about her language learning curve. Now for her bracelet.

Alarik lifted the boy to eye level, his bicep bulging from the effort of keeping a grip on the struggling boy. He cocked his head, studying his quarry.

Satisfaction warmed Cassie as much as the morning sun on her back. Let the little urchin learn some manners from Alarik’s hand. Kier should keep a better eye on his son, but no doubt Alarik would—

Her jaw dropped as Alarik released the boy. The kid sped off while Alarik strolled past her, whistling a tune. Unbelievable. “Alarik!”

His whistling stopped, but he continued toward Kier and glanced over his shoulder. “Ja?”

Frustration bubbled the empty juices in her stomach. Maybe he hadn’t understood her after all. Even if he had, what did she really know about him to expect that he’d bring about justice for her? Forget it. Time to go home, or at least try. She shook her head. “Never mind. Just thought I’d say good-bye. So ’bye.”

One of his brows rose, but he still didn’t turn to give her his full attention. “’Bye?”

She sighed. Even when she knew she’d used the right word, he still didn’t comprehend. “Ja. ’Bye!” She flounced away, irked that his happy whistle had resumed.

The smell of poultry and pig dung attacked her as she navigated around drops and piles of excrement. Entering the house didn’t help her upset stomach when her nose got reacquainted with the rancid oil burning in the lamps. She slapped her hand over her mouth and swallowed the acidic saliva at the back of her throat. With her free hand, she reached for the front door, then drew it back. Black grime coated the latch—a germ fiesta. Nabbing the edge of her blouse, she tugged the sleeve over her fingers and reached again.

It opened before she made contact. A younger lady and the woman she’d seen last night stood cradling a giant, milky-eyed carp, a fishy stench surrounding them.

Cassie shoved past their astonished faces and doubled over, gasping for fresh air. Dry heaves clenched her gut. Lightheaded and trembling, she straightened and leaned against the side of the house. Great way to start her journey home. She had as much energy as if she’d run a marathon.

Skirt fabric swished out the door and a frown worried the face of the older woman, who’d thankfully left her fish inside. She pressed a palm against Cassie’s brow, and her face lightened into a smile. Then she moved her hand from Cassie’s forehead to abdomen.