Rig was sorry that he had been dismissed. For a few minutes, he had made her laugh. What had he said? He shook his head with sorrow as he left her, cursing the fool Olaf who had been granted Ireland’s greatest gem and then mistreated her.
Erin did sleep. She hadn’t done so all night, but with Rig to excuse her presence again, she lay back against her down pillow and found rest in exhaustion. She wanted so desperately to sleep, to stop thinking if only for a little while.
When she awoke she had regained her strength. She touched her cheek and was relieved to discover that the welts were down completely.
She fought against the stupidity of tears and despair. There was so little she could do except threaten him with the Brehon laws, which she refused to admit would be no help in her situation. In Ireland, the lowliest servant or slave, male or female, could eventually buy freedom. A peasant woman could hire a Brehon and take her husband before a magistrate. But the higher one’s position, the higher the authority they must go to for judgment. She would be brought to the provincial king—her own husband—and, seeking higher authority—assuming Olaf agreed!—she would be brought to the Ard-Righ. Her own father. The man who had already closed his heart and handed her over to the Wolf on a silver platter.
Olaf could force her to do anything, and it made far more sense to obey than bear the ignominy of being dragged along. But he hadn’t dragged her anywhere, he had struck out at her and left her and he had not returned.
She hadn’t even meant anything by her words. Despite them, his Grenilde had been the one Viking she had grudgingly admired and respected from afar for all those years. With her gone, he had lost all caring for women. Except for the obliging Mageen who flaunted her authority.
Erin thought again about how dearly she would like to see her mother, to cry out her woes to Maeve. She couldn’t talk to Bede, because despite her sister’s humor, she believed too staunchly in duty and in the Christian ethics of bearing one’s crosses with honor.
Pathetically she whispered aloud, “Father, how could you do this to me?” She closed her eyes again. How she wished she were back at Tara, a child again, crawling upon her father’s knee to receive a bauble of colored glass or some such present when he had been away. I am not a child, she reminded herself, and there is no help. Somehow I must learn to deal with all this or I shall go mad.
There was suddenly a tap at her door. Erin considered calling out that she wished to be left alone, then sighed. She had claimed illness, and Bede would certainly insist upon seeing her and she could not hide in the chamber forever. The ladies would find even more time to snicker behind her back.
Erin squared her shoulders. She was a princess of Tara. She would lash out stupidly in anger no longer, but learn to hold her head so high that none would dare underestimate her.
The tapping became more persistent. Erin sat high against her pillow and issued a cool and royal, “Come in.”
As she had expected, Bede slipped into the room, but she was accompanied by one of the Norse women, Sirgan who, from the first day, had shown Erin more warmth than the other women. She had also become a great favorite of Bede’s, since she was interested in the Christian God, which was rather strange, since she was married to Heidl, one of the fiercest berserkrs known. All the Norsemen were savage fighters, but among them, the berserkrs were a breed apart. The Irish thought them half insane. They screamed and growled like animals in battle, rolled feverish eyes, and were known to break their own teeth by viciously biting their own shields. That Sirgan, a woman of quiet serenity, should be married to such a man seemed strange. Perhaps she had learned to live with the belief that her husband’s every battle could easily be his last.
“Sister, I have worried for you,” Bede said, sweeping to the bed and taking Erin’s hand. “If you ail still, I must ascertain the cause and set about a treatment.”
Erin managed a convincing smile for Bede. “I am feeling much better, Bede. I shall be up soon.”
Bede smiled in return, then glanced to Sirgan, who hovered behind her near the door. Bede seemed relieved, not just because Erin was well, but because a problem had fallen to her that she didn’t know how to handle. If her sister had been ill, she would have been left in a dilemma.
“Sirgan wishes to speak with you, Erin,” Bede said.
Erin glanced curiously to Sirgan and smiled. “How may I help you?”
Sirgan approached Erin, a worried frown knitting her brow. She was not a young woman, yet her blond serenity hinted of a past great beauty, and she was still striking and pleasant to the eye.
“I am concerned about Moira,” Sirgan said to Erin’s surprise. She lifted her hands slightly as if uncomfortable. “She has been with us a long time. She has also patiently endured those of my peers who are not so pleasant to the Irish. Yet today, when Grundred snapped at her about the setting of a loom, she burst into tears and fled the room.” Sirgan paused a moment. “Grundred is a spiteful woman. I fear for Moira for I am very fond of her.”
Erin listened to Sirgan with a bit of amazement, and then pain. There were those among the Norse who were kind—Rig, Freyda, and now Sirgan. She could not despise them all, and yet she could not allow Moira to be hurt further. She must do something.
“Thank you, Sirgan,” she said, “for coming to me like this. I will speak to Moira and see if I might help her.”
Bede, looking vastly relieved, left with Sirgan. Erin frowned, then got out of the bed to wash and dress. She realized then that she did not know where to find Moira, so Erin called Rig to bring her to her chamber.
Erin decided she needn’t worry about her own looks when she saw Moira’s face. Although she was quiet, her cheeks were puffy and her eyes streaked with red.
“I am sorry I did not come this morning,” Moira apologized quickly, “but Rig said that you were ill and did not wish to be disturbed. How are you feeling now?”
“Well, thank you,” Erin murmured, feeling guilty as Moira was obviously distressed. “I wished to see you, Moira, because I would like to know what is wrong with you.”
Moira’s underlip trembled but she lowered her head. “Nothing, Erin, I believe I am overtired.”
Erin smiled. “Let’s change places today, Moira. You sit and I will comb out your hair.”
Moira protested, but Erin chatted until she had her seated, and then she began to comb her friend’s hair, massaging her temples with her fingers. She spoke about the sights she had seen in the streets, and she chattered about the differences between Dubhlain and Tara. Then she spoke seriously again. “Please, Moira, you must tell me what troubles you. I have heard that Grundred is angry, and I must know what is wrong if I am to keep the peace.” Erin paused a moment, then decided she needed another twist. “Please, Moira,” she said softly, “if there is trouble among the women, I will have greater trouble with Olaf.”
Moira burst into tears. Erin sank down beside her and held her in her arms, soothing her, perplexed. She felt as if her heart were breaking. When she had been lost and terrified to face the day, Moira had been there, guiding her, making her realize her plight could be far worse. Moira, handling her life with fortitude …
Finally Moira began to gasp out words. “I am with child and I tried not to be. It was sin, of course, but I did not—I did not wish to bear a child out of wedlock, neither Irish or Norse … despised by both … neither freeman nor servant.”
Her crying became soft, but continued. Erin continued soothing her, then stood with purpose. “Your child will not be despised, Moira, I promise you. Listen to me. I will demand of Olaf that you be turned over to my father and sent to Tara. He has many men who have lost their families; handsome young men who would love you and accept your child with Christian faith. I will see that Sigurd never touches you again—”
She broke off because Moira was laughing. A little chill touched her heart. Did she have that kind of power? Just the idea of asking anything of Olaf was an anathema to her. But she had to help Moira, and surely she
was due a boon from Olaf and her father for attempting no escape when they had trapped her.
She sat beside Moira again. “Please … don’t cry and laugh so, you will injure yourself! You must trust me, Moira. I will free you from that Viking monster.”
The crazy laughter continued as Moira raised her eyes to Erin. Then she tried to sober herself. “Oh, Erin, bless you, but I do not wish to be taken from Sigurd. I cry only for my child. I am in love with that Viking monster.”
Stunned, Erin rose to her feet once more. Her voice seemed to come from very far away. It was as if another person spoke, calmly and confidently. “If you are in love with Sigurd,” she said, “and about to bear his child, then he must marry you.”
Moira began to weep and laugh again. “Sigurd desires me, but he will not take an Irish wife. He is no king with needs of alliances.”
“You will stay here, Moira,” Erin said coolly, sobering Moira once more with the regal tilt of her head and composed voice. “And I will return to you shortly. Then we shall make your wedding plans.”
Moira watched as Erin sailed purposefully from the chamber, unaware that her mistress was wondering from whence her own absurd confidence had come and praying some miracle might occur so that she might in truth carry out the feat.
CHAPTER
13
Olaf sat on his black war stallion and stared out at the men who practiced their lethal warfaring techniques. He had watched Gregory of Clonntairth and his royal brothers-in-law of Ulster and Tara with great interest. He had been wise never to underestimate the strength of Aed Finnlaith. They had truly been at a stalemate, with either alliance or annihilation the only answer. And although the chosen alliance, solidified by intermarriage, couldn’t stop the outlaw raids or the Danes throughout all Eire, Aed and Olaf both sat in relative safety. Combined, their forces were almost indomitable.
It was rumored that Friggid the Bowlegs hid out in the northern regions belonging to Niall of Ulster. One day Olaf meant to flush out the Danish rat, and when he did so, he would have the men of Ulster behind him. That Friggid lived ate at Olaf like a cancer. Like Friggid, Olaf believed that he and the Dane were destined to meet again—to battle to the death. Grenilde must be avenged. Only Friggid’s death could ever relieve him of the dark pain that still ate away at his heart.
Musing upon his pain and his situation brought to his mind his Irish wife. A wince ticked at his jaw as he thought of their last meeting, and then he emitted an impatient growl at himself. He tried to be patient with her. He tried to understand her reasoning. But she was trouble. No matter how sweetly she spoke, a blade was behind her words. And no matter how she feigned obedience and “compromise,” he knew she did so only as a king might, bending to greater strength as she watched for an opportunity to reassert herself. She would test even the patience of a far more tolerant man with her flashing green eyes that never offered submission and her deceitfully soft and curved form that was constantly rigid with impregnable pride.
She had flagrantly defied him and ignored her position as his wife to humiliate him in his own hall over a petty grievance. And she had taken it upon herself to label Grenilde “mistress.” She had deserved his anger.
Then why did it plague him so now that he had struck her? And why had he spent his night miserably before the hearth rather than in the comfort of his own bed? Because she haunted him more daily with her beauty and spirit and he had sworn to stay away from her. His nights were becoming torture even in his own bed, and he had discovered that he had no desire to go elsewhere even to ease the throb within him that she caused.
He snorted suddenly, thinking of women with disgust. He didn’t even know what had brought on her temper tantrum. He had not been near Mageen since days before agreeing to the Christian ceremony that had made Erin his wife. A sigh of irritation escaped him. He supposed he would have to do something—at least see if the complaint were warranted. He had promised Aed that his daughter would receive the respect due the princess of Tara, and if his own relationship with her could not be so construed, he owed it to the Irish High King to see that she was honored among his people.
Olaf’s scowl became more fierce, and he turned his horse from the scene of the warfare training to ride up the highest dun within the city walls to survey his realm. He didn’t like to be bothered with affairs of the household. That, besides the alliance, had been the reason that the idea of taking a wife had been palatable to him even when his heart despised such an action.
His sharp ears long attuned to the sounds of the earth warned him that a horse approached. He shifted in his fine leather saddle, and his amazement caused his scowl to furrow even further into his brow.
His Irish wife rode toward him, she who had begun to plague him waking and sleeping, who haunted him even now with shades of regret over his own, justified behavior. Head high, one with her swiftly galloping mount, she approached him.
She had called Grenilde his mistress. Yet her words had not been cruel, merely desperate. She couldn’t understand that Grenilde had been his world.… His scowl was suddenly tempered by a grin of respect. Despite the violent result of their last meeting, Erin wished something, and so she came to him. No matter how he twisted the chains of her bondage, she did not accept defeat. Surely by now he would have broken the spirit of a woman less determined than the beautiful princess of Tara fate seemed to have set against him.
He waited, his eyes narrowing as he watched her. Again he thought with some surprise how very well she rode. So fluidly, so controlled. Usually only warriors could handle his massive chargers with such fluid, effortless ease.
The horse halted just feet in front of him. She stared at him with her ebony hair and violet mantle flying proudly in the breeze, her eyes flashing emerald fire.
“Lord Olaf, I would speak with you.”
He inclined his head slightly, suppressing the urge to grin. He had noticed that she never addressed him as husband, one of her ways of informing him that she would never consider him such.
“There is a domestic problem that requires your immediate attention. Moira, my woman who belongs to your Sigurd, is with child. She was taken in the raid at Clonntairth several years ago. It is my understanding that she had been with Sigurd since the raid—and also that he was one of her original defilers. You have made peace with my cousin Gregory; you have offered to restore the province of Clonntairth to him. Moira is due as much, my lord, for all she has suffered. As you honor your agreements with my father”—she paused slightly, allowing the dry sarcasm of her words to permeate the air—“I insist that you force Sigurd to marry Moira. She has never offered you trouble of any kind, and despite her position of captive and slave, she has served you and Sigurd well. You cannot allow her to continue to suffer the abuse of the other women, nor allow her child to be born a bastard accepted by neither race.” She finished her speech and stared at him defiantly, as if challenging him to oppose her.
He lifted a single golden brow over his mocking ice eyes. “You wish me to force Sigurd into a marriage.”
“Certainly. I was so forced.”
Olaf suddenly tilted back his granite features and laughed. “An eye for an eye, Princess of Tara?”
Erin momentarily lowered her chin. “No, my lord, there is no recourse for the injustice dealt me.”
Her voice was a bare whisper, and yet it touched him, as no other had in a long time. He was possessed by another urge to slap her and also by an even stronger urge to touch her, to feel all that which his eyes had once assessed and found startlingly perfect, to press her against him and see if the passion that flared in her eyes coursed through her blood. The urge was shatteringly strong to teach her that he was her lord and master, and that he had granted her great concessions by leaving her alone. The lessons he had given her were gentle indeed when he was a man with needs—and not an “injustice” of fate.
He jerked his horse around so furiously that the great animal pawed the ground and reared in protest. He stared
at Erin, oblivious of the stallion’s flailing of the air, his face suddenly as cold and hard as steel.
But to her amazement, his sharp reply was the one she had scarce dared wish in all her brazen demand.
“So be it!” he rasped.
Then the stallion left her in a wind of dust as Olaf raced down the field to rejoin the training session. Erin stared after him in wonder for only a second, then turned her horse around to bring the astonishing good news to Moira.
She was unaware that he watched her smooth gallop home and that his eyes had once more narrowed with speculation on her expert rapport with the powerful animal. She rode exceptionally well. She rode like a warrior.
Sigurd raged and bellowed when ordered to marry. Olaf allowed him his blustering, then reminded him that they had come to establish a kingdom since none had been offered them at home. Sigurd appeared unhappy, and Olaf did a little raging of his own, at which time the giant with his flame-red hair actually became sheepish.
Olaf realized with little surprise that Sigurd loved his Irish mistress and was proud to finally look forward to fatherhood. It was simply the appearance of things. Olaf offered his general the suggestion that he ask the lady himself, and then none would know that his marriage had been any other than his own idea.
Olaf emitted a long and tired sigh when he finally restored his general to his usual proud manner. He had another task ahead of him that he didn’t exactly relish, but Mageen had to be dealt with.
He left his residence behind with anger rumbling in his chest. He hated his life to be cluttered with the petty problems of women. But he owed this perhaps not to the spitfire daughter of the Irish king, but to the Irish king himself.
Erin had returned home ecstatic. Perhaps there was a point to her disastrous marriage; she could wield her power as queen to help her people.