“He was your brother, Brice,” Aed said softly, “and he was my son. I would take him from you now.”
For a moment Brice held tight to his bloodied burden, then he met the sorrow of his father’s eyes.
Aed took his dead son into his arms and carried him from the copse of trees. He carried the son who in life had stood taller, broader than he, and he did not falter.
He brought him to his tent, where he tenderly bathed the dirt from his face, the trail of dried blood that marred his lip. He shrouded his child lovingly in silk, then he gave him up to the priests.
On a distant cliff overlooking the valley copse where the men of the Norse and Irish alliance buried their dead, Friggid the Bowlegs stared on the scene with a snarl of hatred twisting his features. His men were dead or largely scattered. Only two score had made it with him to this point where they regrouped and nursed their wounds.
Friggid began to curse aloud, lifting his fist to the air. “Still he lives … still the Wolf lives!”
Olaf the White held Dubhlain, held the daughter of the Ard-Righ of Ireland, and held the provincial kings in the palm of his hand. None of these things would matter to Friggid if only the Wolf lay dead.
He stared at the mourning rites before him as the sun sank behind cliff and valley.
Suddenly he turned to his men, a fever in his eyes. “We ride south tonight! Niall of Ulster will head north, the Irish Ard-Righ will journey south and inland. The Wolf will follow the coast southward. We will join the outlaw bands that fester the inlets and be a step ahead of the Norwegian. We will wait for him and create a trap and we will see him journey on to Valhalla from the very door of the city he took from us.…”
The Danes cheered on their leader. Friggid smiled. He cared not if they all died or were slaughtered. The Wolf was a sickness with him. Younger, stronger, charismatically golden and powerful. Olaf had to die, had to suffer pain and loss. He had felt mortal blows, the loss of Grenilde, but now he had another woman. A princess, the Ard-Righ’s daughter. A weak point? Friggid wondered. One, at least, he would have to keep carefully in mind.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. The prayers droned on as dirt was spilled on Leith’s silken shroud.
Aed Finnlaith had never looked so old as he turned from the stretch of land that had been paid for by the blood of his own flesh.
Olaf walked quietly to the sly Irish fox, his old adversary turned ally and friend. There were no tears in the man’s eyes, just a weariness and grief that went beyond physical manifestation.
“My men would honor your son and the king of Connaught,” Olaf said quietly, offering the Irish king the only sympathy that could be accepted. “They wish to offer their own tributes to great warriors they believe will surely grace the table at Valhalla. I speak with you because I would not offend you, or the priests who are in your service.”
The old king gave him a soft smile. “I am not offended, Wolf. I am pleased to know that those who fought alongside Leith and Fennen would grant them that honor. Valhalla … heaven? What difference in those words, friend? Please tell your men that they have my blessing to offer up what prayers they would.”
Olaf nodded, understanding more thoroughly than ever the bond of the soul that had drawn him to this leader. He said nothing else, but saluted the Irish king.
The priests grumbled, but the Norse would have their way to assure Leith mac Aed and Fennen mac Cormac a safe and comfortable journey.
Beside Leith and Fennen they buried their swords, food for their journey to the next world, goblets, brooches, knives, and plates. They dug a great crevice to bury horses with complete bridles and trappings so that they might ride across the sky.
The Vikings preferred cremation, sending the spirit through the air, but there were many who adhered to the policy of supplying the deceased with all their needs within the soil, and the Christian priest would never, never allow the Irish prince and king to flame upon a bier.
Aed and his sons disappeared into his tent for the night. It was a time they must have to grieve alone, as Olaf well knew.
But he found himself restless that night, unable to sleep. He stalked a pattern beneath the stars, somewhat startled to realize he could think of nothing but home.
Once it had only been a house. Palatial, magnificent, the birth of a dream itself. A king’s royal residence, but still only a house. And now it was home, because there would be warmth there. His wife … So many times he had fought his dreams of her in which she welcomed him, her slender arms outstretched, her bewitching emerald eyes liquid and sparkling with pleasure. Her black hair would be cloaked about her; beneath it he would feel the beating of her heart. He had often wakened from his dreams aching and sweating. Still, there had been no solace from the torment; no other woman would do. I am bewitched, he often thought. She was not his long-lost valiant blond beauty; she was a spitfire of Eire, as hard to tame as the land.
Today he had beaten the Danes again. Friggid might live, but his men were ousted from Dubhlain and Ulster and vengeance for Grenilde had been extracted.
Though that feat had not brought him the inner peace he craved, it was a door, closing upon the past. He could look to the future, but he did not know if his dreams of the future with Erin could come true; his proud and beautiful bride could easily hate him still. She could be celebrating each long day of his absence, praying each night for his death upon a Danish pike.
He was a man well aware that passion, love, hate, and pride all knew thin boundaries. He had awakened her sensuality, he could claim her as a woman. She could not deny the fires he could flame, but possessing her made-for-desire body was not the same as possessing her mind, her soul, or her heart.
He had been away so long. Three full moons. They had hardly had a chance to know one another. When he returned, he vowed, they would start over. Their battles had been fought. He would do his best to please her, to include her in all that was his life. He would include himself in hers. He would make her happy, because he craved her like a thirsty man unable to drink his fill of wine. Because he needed her.… Because he … He closed his eyes. Maybe he did love her. Maybe all had not been lost with Grenilde.
A noise startled him and he glanced up sharply, sensing danger. He breathed fully again and with an irritated shake of his head.
Mergwin, appearing like a combination of some awesome bird of prey and a madman, moved toward him through the trees.
“By all the gods, Druid,” Olaf muttered softly, “you do know how to make man’s blood pulse.”
Mergwin, adjusting his long sleeves with dignity, peered at Olaf haughtily. “I believe, young lord, that your blood pulses just fine—with or without my presence.”
Olaf laughed, then quickly sobered, remembering the events of the day. “I am in your debt, Druid. I believe you saved my life.”
Mergwin sniffed. “Save your gratitude, Viking. I did not save your life, but gave fate a hand. You would have beaten Friggid anyway.” His voice lowered with pain. “Just as young Leith and Fennen were destined to die.”
Olaf shook his head impatiently. “Men create their own destiny, Druid.”
Mergwin glanced at him knowingly, but shrugged. “As you wish, Norseman.”
Olaf chuckled again. “I like you, Mergwin. And I believe men must follow their own stars. You go about your fate—I will create my destiny.”
Once more Mergwin shrugged, but Olaf narrowed his keen blue eyes at the man.
“What is it this time, Druid? The battle is over. Tomorrow we ride for home. My enemy ran in defeat. Can you contest that?”
“No.” Mergwin shook his head. “It’s just that …”
“Just what, Druid?” Olaf demanded.
“Nothing. Nothing. Good night, King of Dubhlain.” Muttering beneath his breath, Mergwin left Olaf and hurried for his bed.
Olaf remained in the night air a few minutes longer, inhaling the clean scent of earth and air and summer made all the more sweet by victory and the promise of the morro
w. Niall would ride on for Ulster; he and Aed could turn south for home.
He ducked into his tent, found his cot, and slept well.
Mergwin did not sleep well. He fumed and tossed, knowing that shadows still rode the moon.
CHAPTER
17
There were days during Olaf’s absence when it seemed impossible to believe that she had ever become his wife, days when it seemed she surely must have dreamed the time that passed between them. On those mornings Erin would ride out to the bluff that overlooked the sea and she would try to remember his features twisted into a gentle smile, the tense and exciting set to his countenance when his ice-fire eyes blazed out his need. She tried to recall the day when he had spun ancient Norse tales for her, and she liked to dream that he had come to feel something for her.
But most of the time she was faced with reality. She was his wife, and though the Brehon laws protected women from being mere chattels, Olaf didn’t necessarily follow the Irish laws unless they were convenient. In his eyes she was property, and as personal property, he would care for her, protect her, and defend her. He would guard her jealously, and she knew her life could go one way or the other in almost a perfect split. If she obeyed his decrees, he would see that she was respected as he had promised her father. If she stepped out of line … She didn’t know how far his anger could take him, only that there was a cold and relentless side to him. When he chose he could lock himself away behind the cold blue steel of his eyes and judge remorselessly.
Bede had returned to her convent the day after the men rode out, and Erin had sorely missed her sister. She had wondered at first if she might feel entirely alien in the Norse city, but Moira somehow managed to be there exactly when she needed her. And though the great hall seemed very quiet indeed with all the warriors, Norse and Irish, gone, the evening meal was still celebrated with the skeletal guard crew remaining. Sigurd kept things well in hand, and Erin was never afraid in her own home.
The troops had been gone just over a month when a new reality dawned on Erin, one that she first attempted to ignore and then accepted with a strange combination of excitement and trepidation.
She was with child, and as each day passed, she became more certain. She felt queasy in the morning, exhausted at night.
As she lay awake at night, she tried to think of what it would mean, and wondered at her thoughts. A Viking … she was going to have a Viking child.… No matter how she forced those words through her mind, it mattered little. The child she carried was his, the Wolf’s. A child to grow to tower above men as his sire did, strong, and beautiful.
Would he be pleased? she wondered. Didn’t all men crave sons? Or had he lost that desire when he had lost Grenilde?
The thinking and worrying might have driven her mad, but Erin could, at times, pretend that she had never encountered the Vikings at all. Each morning she rode out of the city walls and raced along the cliffs by the sea, as if she were a young girl again, a child with no care but to spend her days in freedom, except that Sigurd, Erin noted, always rode behind her.
As she rode one morning Erin was startled to see a woman standing on the cliffs. A strange tremor shook her, for the woman stood exactly where she had stood the day Olaf had come to her, the day before he had ridden away.
Erin’s heart made a little thump and seemed to stand still. She strained her eyes against the wind and the salt spray of the rugged coastline. It was Mageen, and she was standing precariously close to the edge.…
With little thought, Erin dug her heels into her mare’s flanks and raced across the distance. Mageen did not turn at the pounding hoofbeats, nor did she turn as Erin dismounted and approached her. Erin realized suddenly that her old adversary had not seen or heard her; she appeared in a trance as she stared down the jagged rock to the sea.
“Mageen?” Erin said hesitantly.
There was no response from the pale-faced woman. As Erin watched, Mageen took another step toward the cliff. Instinctively Erin leaped toward her, hurtling them both to the ground, and rolling away from the threat of the ledge.
Mageen’s eyes finally registered coherence as they locked with Erin’s anxious ones, staring deeply as Erin righted herself to a sitting position beside her—carefully keeping hold of Mageen’s wrist. Mageen’s eyes offered no gratitude. “Why did you stop me?” she asked softly.
“You were about to kill yourself!” Erin exploded. She noted now that Mageen’s beautiful hair lacked its usual luster, that the once superbly voluptuous body was almost emaciated. Her face had changed the most shockingly. Where her eyes had once been rich with bold invitation and laughter, they had become hollow and forlorn, like those of a hunted animal.
“It is best,” Mageen said listlessly. She closed her eyes and then stared at Erin again. “You always win, don’t you, Erin of Tara? This is but your victory. For you the gold and jewels and crowns, and you but speak a word and I have naught. Even the whores, beggars, and thieves turn from me.”
“What?” Erin murmured weakly.
Mageen was spared an immediate answer for a horse was pounding toward them. Sigurd, always the watch dog, was coming after Erin. “Erin! You must come away from the cliff!”
Sigurd was annoyed as he left his horse to come to her side. “I will take care of this. Do you know how close you came to hurtling over the rocks, my lady? Olaf would be furious with us both—”
Erin waved Sigurd’s hand aside as he reached to help her to her feet. She couldn’t even care that the giant Viking was yelling—actually yelling at her—in front of Mageen. “Leave me be, Sigurd, I am not going over any cliffs. And I will take care of this myself.”
Sigurd hesitated, scowling. “A few minutes only, Erin. I will await you by the copse.” He remounted his horse and rode the distance, his eyes still on her. Erin watched him with exasperation, then returned her full attention to Mageen. “I never sought your death,” she told the other woman. “I never sought to harm you—just to …” Erin hesitated, staring into the face that reflected a misery deeper even than any she had ever known. “Mageen, you must know that I did not wish to come here. To lose all respect along with my freedom was more than I could bear.”
Mageen closed her eyes again and laughed hollowly. “My lady, were I in your position, I would have torn out my hair and eyes, but not for respect. You see, I loved Olaf.” Her eyes opened and focused on Erin’s. She spoke again softly. “I wonder if you too, my lady, have not found yourself loving against your will.”
Erin flicked her own lashes over her eyes and ignored the statement. “My lord Olaf is not a man worth dying for, Mageen. He loves no one.”
Mageen’s hand fluttered from the ground and fell back to it. “You do not understand, my lady. I have been barred from the great hall. The merchants will not sell to me. The warriors do not seek out my cottage. There is not a man or woman in the town who will offer me a nod in greeting.”
Erin stood up and extended her hand to Mageen. The other woman watched it for a moment, then turned her eyes to Erin’s hesitantly.
“Take my hand, please, Mageen,” Erin said quietly. “You have taught me how it is possible to use responsibility lightly. I must hold to my stand,” Erin said, smiling ruefully. “I was forced into my marriage, but I still cannot allow you a part of my husband. But I knew not of my own cruelty, and it weighs heavily upon me that I might have cost you what is precious and totally yours—your life. If you wish a friend within the town, you have one. Me. And you will come to the great hall this evening and all will know that you are welcome.”
Mageen slowly accepted Erin’s hand, still staring at the princess incredulously. She stood and finally smiled. “My lady, I thank you.”
“Tell me, Mageen—” Erin paused awkwardly for a moment. “Do you do anything other than … I mean, do you have any particular talents—”
Mageen chuckled softly, and Erin was glad to see a touch of the woman’s saucy humor return to her listless eyes. “Do you ask me if I can be oth
er than a whore, my lady? Aye. I cook and sew and keep a hearth as well as any. Long ago I learned that men were fickle creatures, quick to cast their eyes astray and seek another. It seemed wiser, and more profitable, to be the woman men sought rather than that poor creature they left behind to mend and clean and serve.”
Erin shrugged. Mageen’s sentiments weren’t terribly different from her own, even if their direction took a slightly different course. “Not all men are like that, Mageen,” she said quietly. “My father has never swerved from my mother. But that is not what I want to speak to you about. Moira of Clonntairth grows heavier daily with her child. Would you care to serve her? She is a kind and gentle lady who offers no judgment.”
Mageen lowered her eyes, trembling. “Aye, my lady. I would be glad to care for Moira, and the babe that comes.”
“Then it is settled,” Erin murmured. “We will return, for the wind grows blustery and the air cold.”
“You must ride, I will walk back.”
“Nay, you may sit ahead of Sigurd. He will take you to Moira.”
Erin turned purposefully to gather the reins of her horse and wave toward Sigurd. Mageen halted her momentarily with a hand upon her shoulder. “Erin of Tara, I thank you heartily. You offer me friendship, and I tell you this: I have been but a whore, but I offer in return the full loyalty of my heart and, if ever needed, the life you have saved.”
Erin flushed. “I have but repaired the damage I did of my own careless hands.”
“Nay, much more.” Mageen hesitated a moment, then continued. “You must also care for yourself. A first child is oft uncomfortable to carry.”
Erin glanced nervously at her mare and patted the animal’s sleek neck. “Is it so obvious then already?” she asked huskily.
“Nay,” Mageen replied with a surprising wisdom in her eyes. “I see it, as I see that you too have come under the spell of the Wolf. Guard well his child, Erin, for surely that will bind his love.”