Wild Viking Princess (14 page)

She shook her head, tears welling as a lump rose in her throat.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “If this was your father’s funeral, I would be there for you.”

She gasped, guilt sweeping through her. As usual, she had been too caught up in her own point of view. She came to her feet, but he had already left, striding away. She called his name, but the wind stole her voice. Thor barked, but Reider did not turn around.

She sank back onto the log and sobbed. Thor licked away her tears, and she hugged him. “Thor, I love Reider. I cannot bear the thought of life without him. But somewhere within myself I fear I will have to summon the strength to walk away.”

The sea still held Ragna’s gaze when she heard footsteps behind her again. Disappointment surged when she heard Kjartan’s voice raised in greeting. “Cousin.”

Coming to her feet, she sniffled and wiped a sleeve across her eyes, returning his greeting. “Cousin.”

“You have been weeping?”

She nodded mutely, still staring out to sea.

He came to stand beside her. “Ragna, the same blood runs in our veins. Our lives have been different. You have your beliefs and Reider and I have ours, but we have many things in common. The manner of your parents’ deaths broke your heart. The same is true for Reider. You honour the memory of your parents. Reider seeks to do the same. Can you not understand that?”

She fisted her hands and turned to face him. “Of course I can. But I cannot understand how he can allow a woman to be murdered and tossed onto a funeral pyre.”

He put his finger under her chin and tilted her face to look up at him. “Ragna, not only will he allow it, he will be the one to make sure she is dead before the fire is lit. He will make it quick and painless. It is his right.”

Ragna gasped and narrowed her eyes, her head pounding. “His right? It’s
too much
.”

Anger tinged his voice. “Perhaps you have
too much
of the Dane in you. You are too set in your opinions. Why not speak with the woman whose chosen fate you condemn?”

He turned to walk away, but then returned to her side. “If you do not attend the funeral, it will mean the end of your betrothal. Reider could never hold his head high again if he wed you. Will you come with me now to meet Sigrun? I am begging for my friend’s sake. If you leave him, you will break his heart.”

~~~

Ragna hesitated outside the lodge where Sigrun prepared for the funeral. Kjartan took hold of Thor’s collar and pushed the hound to a thrall. “He will take care of your dog.” He put his hand on the small of her back and eased her inside.

To her surprise, Sigrun rose to greet her. The slave was dressed in a beautifully embroidered red gown. She was tall and willowy, and looked—serene. She held out both hands to Ragna. “Welcome, thank you for coming. It is a great honour.”

Kjartan translated her words. Ragna tried to speak, but the right words would not emerge. She closed her gaping mouth, then rasped, “You are beautiful, Sigrun.”

The thrall blushed and bowed. “I want to be beautiful for Torfinn. Kjartan told me you do not understand why I wish to do this?”

Ragna shook her head and averted her gaze from this woman who would die this afternoon, at Reider’s hand. She pressed her lips together and wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on her dress.

“Torfinn was my master, but I loved him and he loved me, in his own way. He married two wives, Reider’s mother and Gorm’s mother. He cared for them both, though he was not Gorm’s father. He could never have married a thrall, no matter how much he wanted to, but I held a special place in his heart. Our bodies sang together when we joined.”

Kjartan’s face reddened as he explained Sigrun’s words. Ragna blushed too, understanding perfectly. Her body sang whenever Reider came close, whenever he touched her. “But must you die for him?”

Sigrun smiled. “I would have given my life for him before, why not now? I am not a young woman. I would rather journey with Torfinn. Do not blame Reider.”

A chill travelled from the soles of Ragna’s feet all the way up her spine. Would she be willing to give her life for Reider? Would she be prepared to die to protect him? Had she not thrown caution for her own safety to the winds in coming to his aid, intent only on his welfare?

As she watched, Sigrun took down her grey hair and another thrall combed it. Kjartan touched Ragna’s elbow. “You have probably noticed that female thralls have closely cropped hair. Torfinn thought so highly of Sigrun, he allowed her to keep her hair long. It was a mark of great respect. He gave her the amber beads she wears.”

The peace of the small chamber was shattered by the sound of a mournful horn. Ragna jumped, gooseflesh coursing over her skin. A shadow of nervousness passed over Sigrun’s face, then left as quickly as it had come. Kjartan’s grip on Ragna’s elbow tightened. “It is time. The villagers are gathering. You must make a decision, Ragna. All or nothing.”

All or nothing?

Her lifelong mantra!

She wanted it all! She had always wanted it all!

She smiled at Sigrun, then turned to Kjartan, taking a deep breath to calm her raging heart. “Escort me to my chamber. I must dress for the funeral.”

He grinned and whisked her out the door faster than her feet could carry her.

Thralls dressed Ragna in a fine white linen gown, embroidered around the neck and the ends of the sleeves. She pushed away thoughts of Reider lying with any of these women. A blue cloak was fastened around her shoulders and pinned with a
s
ølje
. Fingering the silver brooch, she suppressed a sigh of disappointment when Kjartan appeared to escort her to the rites.

They climbed the hill to the site of the stone ship. Villagers had assembled, standing to one side of the ship, looking out to sea. Some held unlit torches. They bowed respectfully. Dieter stood among them, his expression solemn. He nodded to her, but did not smile.

Kjartan took her to the entrance of the death house. She dug her nails into his arm, shivering at the sight of Torfinn’s body, surrounded by his earthly possessions. A shield lay at his head, his helmet at his feet. His dead hands lay over the hilt of a sword placed on top of his body. Decay lingered in the air.

How difficult it must have been for Reider to complete this ritual that had been accomplished with such obvious love and care.

She appreciated Kjartan’s support as they took their places outside in front of the villagers. Shadows lengthened as the afternoon sun made its way to the horizon. The two stone pillars at either end of the ship loomed like giant monoliths. She shuddered and felt Kjartan’s hand on her elbow. “Courage, cousin.”

~~~

Her heartbeat had slowed, but then the horn sounded again, closer now. She put her hand over her throat, following everyone’s gaze down the hill. Sigrun emerged from the lodge, arm in arm with two men. Reider’s blonde hair was tightly braided, the bronzed glow of his skin deepened by the white linen of the long tunic he wore. He looked like a golden god. Yearning lit a fire below the pit of her belly and she swayed, but again Kjartan supported her.

As they approached, Reider talked with Sigrun. She smiled. The other man’s lips were tightly drawn, his jaw clenched. He was younger than Reider. His fair hair was short, like a thrall’s. Ragna did not recall seeing him before.

They climbed the hill slowly and came to stand by the stone ship. Reider did not smile when he caught sight of Ragna, but his brown eyes shone with relief. Sigrun nodded to her, then the three passed through the rocks of the stone ship. Ragna gasped. Reider held a dagger in his right hand, pressed against his leg.

They paused at the entry. The second man embraced Sigrun and walked to one of the monoliths, his head bowed. Reider turned to the thrall. His voice faltered as he declared, “It is a good day for a sail. May fair winds carry you and my father to your journey’s end.”

They stepped inside the death house, out of sight. Only the sound of the wind broke the utter silence. Ragna held her breath, expecting to hear a scream of pain.

Reider emerged a few moments later, rubbing the back of his neck, the other fist clenched, a trace of blood on his sleeve.

~~~

A thrall handed Reider a horn. He hesitated, took a deep breath, and blew a long note. His weather-tanned fingers turned white around the horn. His face reddened. The mournful sound echoed across the headland.

The villagers formed a processional line and, one by one, families presented gifts to Reider. He handed them to the other man who had escorted Sigrun. Each gift was taken into the death house. They brought cheeses, casks of ale, pitchers of milk, baskets, blankets, chickens, tools. Ragna lost track in her amazement. She could not take her eyes off Reider. His heart must be breaking, yet he stood stoically accepting the gifts, jaw clenched, neck muscles corded, bowing his polite thanks to each donor. Occasionally he rubbed the arm Gorm had slashed.

How hard it must have been for him to help Sigrun on her way, but he had expected no less of himself. The depth of her love for this honourable man shook her to the core. The road ahead would not be easy, but she had never been one to travel an easy road.

When the gift-giving came to an end, Reider sounded another long note on the horn. Thralls brought armloads of cut branches and threw them into the doorway of the death house. Reider came to stand at Ragna’s side. His eyes were red, his mouth a stern line. He raised the horn to his lips once more and blew until he had no breath left to blow, an anguished, keening requiem that echoed to the bone. Ragna let the tears flow freely down her cheeks. The villagers wept openly.

The torches had been lit and the men carrying them stepped forward. Reider and the other escort took a torch, thrusting them into the kindling around the edges of the pyre.

“Safe journey, fair winds,” Reider shouted, his voice stronger now. He came to stand at Ragna’s side again. The flames caught eagerly and the pyre was soon engulfed. Ragna looked out at the waning rays of the sun on the sea below. Soon the red of the flames shone on the water and a large pillar of acrid smoke rose skyward. The wind swirled it around the gathering, stinging Ragna’s eyes. The heat of the flames scorched her face. She longed to reach out to this grieving man who would be her husband, but was it appropriate? Would he resent her for it? She gasped when he took her hand and squeezed so hard she feared her fingers might break. It would be worth it if it helped ease his pain.

~~~

A thrall bearing a ewer and two goblets approached Reider, who filled the goblets and raised one high above his head. “This is mead, drink of the gods.”

Ragna gasped. She knew all about mead! The mead Aidan made at Kirkthwaite rivalled that of Lindisfarne.

Reider was hoarse. “We toast Torfinn Reidersen, a great warrior, father, king and Viking, and Sigrun his beloved thrall. We pray the gods grant fair winds and a safe voyage to this ship. We ask Odin to welcome them into his feast hall.”

He poured some of the mead on the ground then drained the goblet. He handed the remaining goblet to the second escort, who cleared his throat then spoke haltingly. “We toast Torfinn Reidersen, a great warrior, king, father and Viking, and Sigrun his thrall, a beloved mother.” He too poured mead on the ground before draining his goblet.

What did he mean? Was this man Sigrun’s son? Why had he also said
father
?

It was fully dark before the funeral pyre burned itself out and the death house collapsed in a shower of ashes and sparks. Ragna felt a strange sense of peace and completion she had been denied with her parents. Reider still held her hand tightly.

He turned to his people. “We invite you to the feast in honour of my father and Sigrun.”

Slowly everyone processed down the hill, led by Kjartan, until only Reider, Ragna and the unknown man remained. Ragna looked inquiringly at Reider. “Ragna, please meet Gregor Sigrunsen.”

She knew enough about Danish naming customs to be surprised. “Sigrun was your mother?”

Gregor only nodded, his mouth a tight line.

She looked back at Reider, not daring to ask the question. Her betrothed nodded. “He is my half-brother.”

“But—if Sigrun was a thrall—”

Reider inhaled deeply. “You are right in your deduction. Gregor is a thrall, or should I say
was
a thrall. I have freed him, to honour Sigrun—and to please you.”

Her mind whirled. She was elated he had freed Gregor, but the man was his half-brother. Why had he not been freed before? Her own father had risked his life on more than one occasion for his half-brothers, Robert and Baudoin de Montbryce.

Gregor stepped forward and held out his hands. His mother’s amber beads lay across his palms. “My mother wanted you to have these,” he rasped.

She looked in amazement at the amber beads, then quickly at Reider, unsure what to do. His eyes said yes. She inclined her head and Gregor fastened the beads behind her neck. When she raised her head she discerned no malice in his sad eyes. He bowed, shook Reider’s hand, then strode away.

She fingered the beads. How could Gregor accept that Reider had taken his mother’s life? That he had not been able to bear his father’s name? Would she ever understand these Danes?