Undercurrent (4 page)

God of Ragnar, if indeed a God you be, do not let Ragnar’s wounds take him from the living. By his own words, he is your servant. You have no worthier follower that draws breath, and I…I cannot lose him.

The sky remained empty. Not that he’d actually expected an answer, but he strained his ears and heard…nothing. Silence. Unearthly silence. A shiver left gooseflesh along his arms.

The faering’s sail withered like an ancient’s skin. No more waves and no more wind. Odin’s teeth! What foul omen did this portend?

He ducked under the sagging sailcloth and made his way to the bow. Shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, he examined the horizon. Not far ahead, a figure floated in the water.

With the practiced balance of a seasoned mariner, he swooped beneath the boom and retrieved the oars, sliding them into the oarlocks. He strained against the long paddles with such force, he feared either the oak would snap or his sinew would rip from the bone. But fate smiled, and he succeeded in maneuvering the boat alongside a woman floating face-up.

Making haste to secure the oars, he assessed her body as he worked. She bobbed in the waves created by his rowing. Water droplets glistened on her cheeks as if she’d just emerged, yet in her state, she couldn’t have swum this far from land. Nor did anything buoy her up. Impossible…as perplexing as the sudden loss of wind. Brown hair lit with golds and reds fanned out from an angelic face that yet held good color—except for the blue lips. Whoever this vixen of the sea was, she didn’t have much time left.

He leaned over the rail, careful to catch his boots on one of the thwarts, then snagged a slender arm, cold as the sea itself. Heaving backward, he landed her as he might a large halibut, but she put up no fight—a bad portent to be sure.

Alarik braced his arms about her chest and squeezed so tight that he listened lest he hear the crack of a rib. Instead, her body spasmed, and she expelled a gush of water, somewhat pink and frothy. Immediately he bent forward, supporting her weight as she spewed and gasped, then spewed some more. At first she trembled, but that soon turned into violent shaking. He let her loose and she fell to all fours, shivering out of control, but bearing herself up from lying prostrate.

She’d be fine.

He scrambled aft, where his trunk served as the only seat. Folded inside, atop the few provisions he’d secured during his stop at the Orkneys, lay a thick cloak. Pulling it out, he ducked the boom once more and returned to wrap the half-naked girl. What mishap had the woman suffered to be garbed in such disarray and cast into the sea?

Her hoarse voice cried unintelligible words, and she pushed her palms against his chest as he tried to cover her. When she finally allowed the warmth of his cloak to soak into her, she quieted and lifted her face to his. A faint ring of purple traced her lips, but eyes the color of the water he’d pulled her from shone clear and bright—then rolled back into her head.

He caught her before she collapsed. Her body felt as a child’s in his arms. Cradling her, he bent beneath the limp sail, then tucked the frail beauty into the forward hull. Her chest rose and fell in a stable rhythm. She’d be all right now, but he continued to struggle with a reason for her to be floating so far off Engla-lond’s shore. No time to wonder though, or he’d not cover the distance he’d intended.

Turning from her, he loosened the rigging, then scooted aft to lessen the tension on those ropes. After two tries, he hefted another rope over the crossbeam and tied up the bottom third of the slack sail. When the wind did pick up, he’d be ready to release the rope and tighten the rigging…if the wind picked up.

Until then, he grasped the weathered wood of both oars and threw himself into the labor at hand. Under a layer of sweaty grime induced by salt and sun, his skin soon burned. A loose piece of hair, damp and tacky, stung his eyes at intervals. More than once he lost the cadence of his rowing rhythm and the slap of a skipping paddle washed water on board. But through it all, the faering cut southward.

Hours later, his wooden arms couldn’t row another stroke. The searing pain that ripped at his muscles earlier had settled into a weary numbness and seeped into his marrow. His hands shook as an elder’s. Spent, he set the oars and rested his weight against the trunk, letting his legs sprawl along the wet faering floor. His breeches clung like a second skin. He’d have to bail in a little while, but not yet.

The solstice sun broiled his cheeks, and he shut his eyes against the glare. Midsummer’s eve and here he sat in a lifeless faering with a strange woman when he should have been donning his finest garments for a wedding ceremony. He’d claimed Signy as his own long ago, but this day would have bound her to him forever. He smashed his fist into his palm. How had things gone so wrong?

For the hundredth time, he tried to remember all. Strong mead and lots of it. How many horns had he downed that night? He’d swapped tales of glory with village men, and all had laughed. Not one angry word had been exchanged.

Far into the hours of early morn, he’d left the Great Hall with Einar and Ragnar. He remembered the first brisk inhale of cool night air and the playful cuff on the head from Einar. Then stumbling, and blackness, and…nothing. Nothing until he’d woken to the smell of blood.

Could he have lost his senses and lashed out at his half-brother and his friend? But why? Had he gone berserkr? Oh, easy enough to strike at Einar and take his place as first born, but why would he raise his hand against his friend Ragnar?

Alarik swallowed hard. There was no honor in being a murderer. A mighty warrior, yes, but never a murderer. The thought boiled deep in his gut while a cool breeze soothed his face.

Cool breeze.

He shot into action, releasing the sail and tightening the rigging. Wind pressed against the fabric, pushing it taut, and the faering raced forward. He turned his head to the rushing air and breathed in the salty tang. Perhaps this day would fare well after all.

Even with the good fortune of a steady gale, the faering fell far short of reaching Ravenscar Cliffs when daylight eventually faded. He’d have to put in for the night and hope to sail much farther on the morrow. With a healthy wind, he could make Hayburne Wyke, where he’d hide the boat for the return to his homeland.

The woman hadn’t stirred the entire journey. He’d checked for her light breath several times and satisfied himself once more before swinging his legs over the gunwale. His boots sank into gravelly sand, but solid land nonetheless. He surveyed the immediate area with a sweep of his gaze, his backside crying out for the more forgiving pallet of bracken and dirt rather than spending another night seeking comfort in the hull of the faering.

Unloading minimal provisions, he made a bare-bones camp not far from water’s edge. A canvas and some rope comprised all the shelter he had time to construct as twilight threatened with darkness. He indulged a brief moment to stretch the kinks from his neck before forcing his tired body back to the faering one last time.

The woman lay curled in his cloak as he’d left her. Though she weighed less than a whisper, his overtaxed arms quivered by the time he settled her beneath the crude tent.

He collapsed next to her and pulled her close. She smelled of wet wool, definitely not the fresh, herbal scent of his own Signy. Where did this nymph belong? When he woke in the morn, would she be but a dream?

Possible. Magic abounded on the eve of the midnight sun. But if she still warmed his side when his eyes opened to morn’s light, he’d keep her.

When he did return home, she’d make a fine wedding gift for Signy—a slave of her own.

The flames of hell receded, leaving behind blessed relief. Ragnar knew the Christ would not give him over to such torture beyond what he could bear, but, sweet Jesu, such fiery burning had indeed been a trial.

Warmth yet enveloped him, though of a different kind, almost…sensual. Treading in the hazy dreamland, he drew near a woman, foreign, intriguing—or did she draw near to him? Either way, the pull toward her could not be denied, and he leaned closer, desiring her touch. In response, she stroked his face, her caress more than physical. Not once did she shrink from his ugly scars. Instead, she pressed a trail of light kisses along the ridge from eye to chin, looking past his disfigurement to his heart. She spoke gentle words of assurance in a tongue he’d never before heard. What she said, he could not cipher, but dare he name it?

Love. She spoke all in a tone of love.

He strained to catch sight of her fair features, for he must know her. Nay, he must have her.

Shadows swirled in, carrying her from his reach, her departure leaving behind a loneliness that squeezed his soul.

“
Ragnar?”

Had she returned?

“
You wake?”

He breathed in lavendar and woodsmoke. Was this her scent?

Turning his head toward the sound took more effort than battling a squall at sea. Even in the dimness of the longhouse, the spare light from the ceiling’s smoke hole allowed his lashes to open only so far, and his vision blurred.

Warm fingers brushed back the long hair from his forehead. “You’ve had me frightened.”

“
No!” Lifting a log-heavy hand, he swiped his hair back into place. He’d not subject even a dream woman to the horrible fright his face might bring.

He focused on a worried gaze, lovely even with a frown of tacit disapproval. Skin smooth and white as a fresh winter’s snow, with cheeks the color of ripening strawberries under a summer’s sun. Hair of burnt honey and eyes the depth and color of an undisturbed fjord—deep and blue.

But not the woman who’d moved him so. Disappointment choked him as he looked upon Signy, Alarik’s betrothed.

Alarik. The memory of violence, blood, and fear rushed at him like an enemy. He pushed himself upward, but pain ripped his torso from chest to groin. Breath clawed down his dry throat as he gasped.

Signy leaned closer, her soft voice soothing. “You have not the strength of Thor, ja? Not yet, anyway.”

“
How long”—even shallow breaths hurt—“how long have I lain?”

She stood and studied him. “Long enough that I thought you’d wake no more. Three days.”

Three days? He’d wasted three days? Einar’s murderer would surely have destroyed any evidence by now, making Alarik look all the more guilty. But what if it really had been Ala—

Nay. He’d never believe such a lie.

Ragnar ran his tongue along cracked lips. Signy knelt next to his pallet, a carved cup in her hands. She set it down then reached to prop up his head further, fluffing the straw pillow. The rustle of the dry grass echoed overloud in his ears.

“
Drink.”

With a gentleness Alarik might be jealous of, she supported his head and lifted the cup. He swallowed the tepid liquid until the flavor lodged like a battleaxe to his senses. The foul brew tasted worse than rotted cabbage. He spit it out and knocked the cup from her hand.

“
Ragnar! You must not.”

“
You would poison me now that I wake?”

She leaned back but stayed on her knees. “I must know whether you’ll live or die, and this potion will reveal such. If your wound soon smells as the broth, there will be no hope.”

“
Then you’ll have to wonder.” He clamped his lips.

Creases frustrated her brow, and she stood. “You are as stubborn in your actions as you are in your faith.”

He let his mouth curl into a smile, but would not open it. Though Signy’s knowledge of herbs surpassed the oldest crone in the village, the thought of swallowing even a drop of that concoction cramped his gut.

Solid wood slapped against wattle and daub, making them both flinch. A chunk of the dried mud shattered on the floor as a giant man with wild hair and a red beard stomped into the longhouse. Signy stepped away from Ragnar and lowered her eyes.

Gerlaich thundered in like an approaching storm. Ragnar struggled to rise, but unbearable pain sliced across his chest. Determination alone kept him conscious and panting.

“
So, you live.”

Ragnar steadied his breath. “Father.”

Gerlaich’s cold stare offered all the warmth of a north wind. “Who did this to you?”

“
I…” Ragnar pushed up once more and blackness wrapped around him. As much as he’d prefer returning to the dream woman’s arms, he would not face his father lying down.

“
Who did this!”

As he drew a deep breath, Ragnar’s vision cleared. “I know not.”

“
You, trained and proven as a warrior, know not who attacked you?” His father cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Is this what your religion has brought you to?”

Gerlaich struck so fast and hard, blood filled Ragnar’s mouth before he realized he’d been hit. Signy rushed forward, but his father held out a forearm to stop her.

“
Where is Alarik? You know, ja?”

Ragnar fought to hold onto the booming voice, the quiet sob of Signy, even the lingering odor of the foul onion broth that clung to his beard. He would not pass out in front of his father. To do so would bring shame to the most high God he served.

Gerlaich leaned so close that his stinking breath made Ragnar wish he had fainted. “There is a price on Alarik’s head that I will claim. Where is he? Gone to his mother’s land?”