The men hooted with laughter even as they fished him out. He came dripping into the longboat, and shook himself as would a mongrel dog.
“You think it funny?” he said to Laren, who was holding her sides with laugher.
“Aye, you have the look of a drowned god.”
His own laughter died in his throat. A god? She believed he looked like a god? He turned quickly, uncomfortable with her words, at the sound of Taby’s laugh. The child was laughing and pointing and trying to get to Merrik. “Keep your distance, Prince Taby,” he called. “I do not want you to become as wet a god as I.”
When they arrived at the long single dock that lay at the base of a winding pathway up to the huge farmstead atop, the men could no longer contain their excitement, for there were their wives and children awaiting them on the dock, shouting to them.
Merrik scanned the gathered people for his father and mother. He saw his brother, Erik, and from this distance he didn’t see any welcoming smile on his brother’s handsome face. His heart began to pound, slow deep strokes. The foreboding he’d felt, no, it couldn’t be true.
But it was. Both his father and mother were dead of a virulent plague that had struck the farmstead a month before.
8
MERRIK SAT SILENT and still, hunched over on the long bench, a cup of mead between his cupped hands.
His brother Erik sat beside him, silent as well. Finally, Erik said, “Their passing was swift. They did not suffer overly. It struck so quickly, I cannot tell you how it was, not really. Death was here and you could smell it and feel it in the very air around you, and there was naught anyone could do, save look on and watch the ones we loved die.” Erik paused a moment, shaking his head. “Sarla was ill but she recovered. I believe it was she who gave the illness to our mother, for Mother tended to her. And then it struck our father who wouldn’t leave Mother’s side for an instant. Aye, and Sarla survived it.”
Merrik wanted to tell him not to be stupid, that it wasn’t Sarla’s fault, but words stuck in his throat. He felt his control slipping and swallowed, lowering his head even more.
Erik continued after a moment. “The older people, well, they were struck hard and most of them died. Our parents were amongst the first. Ten of our people died, eight slaves. It wasn’t a good time. I wish you had been here, but perhaps it was better that you were not. I would not wish to have lost you.”
“Did it strike any of the other farmsteads?”
“You mean our cousin Egil? Nay, he and his family were spared. It came here and stayed, then was gone suddenly like a ghost that fades away in the stark light of day. All of Gravak Valley was spared, save us.”
Sarla appeared at Merrik’s elbow, and said quietly, “You must eat, Merrik. I have prepared the stewed venison you very much like, at least that is what your mother told me. I have not her skill, but it is tasty enough, I think.”
He smiled up at her, this shy wife of his brother’s, so slight, quite pretty really when one looked at her closely, but she was so quiet that it was easy not to notice her. Her hair was a dark, rich blond, her eyes more gray than blue, her skin fair and pure. She was also dominated completely by Erik, as most were. He was glad she had survived. “Thank you, Sarla, but I have no hunger. Please see to the other men.” He realized then that he had forgotten about Laren and Taby. “Sarla, please see as well to the woman and child I brought with me. The man’s name is Cleve. They will sleep here in the longhouse.”
She nodded, touched his sleeve, and asked if he wished more mead. Before he could reply, his brother said, his voice cold with impatience, “If he wishes you prattling about him, Sarla, he will tell you. Get you back to your duties.”
She said nothing, merely bowed her head and left the brothers. Erik said, “You bought them in Kiev, so Eller told me.”
“I bought the child. The woman and man came to me free.” For a moment, his grief fell away from him and he smiled at his brother. “Actually, we had to flee Kiev before an enraged merchant discovered he’d just lost a boy and a man.”
“Boy? She is very obviously a girl.”
“Aye, but then she was a boy, thin as a stick and dressed in ragged breeches and tunic. Even I didn’t realize she wasn’t a boy until I had to tend her back. This merchant Thrasco had beaten her very badly.”
“She is a slave, then,” Erik said, satisfaction in his voice. Merrik said nothing, indeed, he hadn’t heard his brother, for his thoughts were on his parents again.
“She is still thin,” Erik said, and Merrik looked up to see his brother’s eyes on Laren, seated near the fire pit, Sarla standing beside her. “But she doesn’t look sickly.”
“No, she doesn’t. You should have seen her when I managed to flee with her. She was naught more than bones covered with white flesh. The child, too, was so thin it would make you cry, Erik.”
“The child?” He looked toward Taby who was playing with a leather ball. “Surely he is more a burden than anything. Did the girl beg you to buy him? Did she promise to be your whore if you bought him? But none of that would matter, for a man does as he pleases with a woman, and a slave is of no account at all. Why in the name of the gods did you buy a child, Merrik?”
Merrik said slowly, “I don’t know. I saw him and I knew I had to have him. Laren had nothing to do with it. She’d already been bought by the merchant. I bought Taby.” Merrik shrugged. “Aye, he is mine now. I saved her because she is Taby’s sister.”
“Ah,” Erik said and fell again silent. “Why is there a bruise on her cheek? It is nearly gone now but still I can make it out. Was she insolent? Did you have to strike her?”
Merrik didn’t want to answer his brother’s questions. He wanted only to feel his grief and not be further distracted from it. “No,” he said shortly, rising, “I did not strike her. I am going outside for a while, Erik. I must be alone. I suppose I need it for a little while.”
Erik thoughtfully watched his brother walk to the wide oak doors of the longhouse and go outside. He looked again toward the female Merrik had brought with him from Kiev. She was laughing softly at something the child said. Her face lit up as she hugged the little boy close to her. She stood back again to toss the ball to him.
Erik rose. He looked about the large outer chamber that was filled with the soft blue haze of smoke from the fire pit. A thin thread of blue smoke trailed upward, disappearing through the small circular hole in the roof of the longhouse. As a child he’d stared and stared at that slender blue line that seemed unreal, so steady was it and so unchanging, and so very blue. Some things didn’t change, he thought, just the people looking at them did. He felt tears burn his eyes, but they didn’t overflow, not now, not in over a week now.
The large outer room was warm, filled with conversation. Some laughter, but quickly muted, some angry words, children being scolded, so very normal, all of it. Erik let it flow about him, scarce touching him, but there and comforting nonetheless. He could hear the tenor of the voices, hear the sorrow in the voices, so much sorrow, deep within everyone, so close to the surface, so very close. He sighed. Unlike Merrik, whose pain he understood well, he’d had a month to accustom himself to his father’s and mother’s passing. And, unlike Merrik, he’d had to live with them here at Malverne, never leaving as Merrik did on trading voyages since he, Erik, was the eldest son. Ah, and he’d argued with them even when he’d reached his man years and they’d had no reason not to agree with him, not to let him have his way, and thus his memories were tempered with the bitter quarrels, the shouting, the bone-deep anger he’d sometimes felt toward them. They’d disliked his keeping Caylis and Megot, though they’d treated his son by Caylis, Kenna, well enough. They’d taken Sarla’s side when he’d become angry at her and struck her. Aye, there was much to temper his memory of his mother and father. But not Merrik, not the favored younger son who was never here at Malverne.
Now Malverne was his and his alone. There would be no more arguments with his father on something he wished to do. H
e was the master now, he was the lord. Only what he said mattered. There were none left to gainsay him. He looked over at his wife, Sarla, knowing in his belly that she was barren, knowing that he would have to rid himself of her if he wished an heir. Or, if he kept her, then one of his other sons could be made legitimate. Probably Kenna, Caylis’s son, a handsome boy of eight who looked just like Erik had at that age. Certainly Sarla would never say anything to him that might displease him enough to dismiss her. She was little more than a shadow, a quiet child whose body he still enjoyed, but not all that much, for she lay there, cold and silent, waiting for him to be done with her. And he had hurt her many times because he’d wanted her to cry out, wanted to hear something from her, whether it be pleasure or pain.
The smell of venison was strong, too strong. He frowned. When his mother prepared the venison stew, the smells were wondrous, the smell of the meat never overpowering the other ingredients. What could he expect? Sarla had not his mother’s skills.
Sarla gave Laren two blankets and told her in her quiet way to sleep close to the fire pit, for the night would be chilly and the still-glowing embers would keep her warm throughout the night. As for Cleve, Sarla merely handed him a blanket and said, “Any place you wish to rest is fine.” Then she smiled at him. Cleve looked down at the slight female in front of him. Didn’t she see the hideous scars on his face? How could she smile at him? Was she nearly blind? He merely nodded to her as he took the blanket.
“Sarla!”
She raised her head to see her husband standing, hands on hips, his handsome features cold with impatience. It was always so with her. He was always impatient, always displeased with her about something. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. She did little that was like his mother did, though Tora had never scolded her or treated her meanly. But her husband did. She sighed, feeling her body retreat inward. He wanted her to come to his bed and she didn’t want to. He wanted her to see to his pleasure. She didn’t want to do that, either, but she supposed she preferred that to lying on her back and feeling him invade her and sweat over her, making those ugly grunting noises. Whatever he wanted, she had no choice. She lowered her head, not looking at anyone for she knew that all the men would realize what her husband wanted of her. She couldn’t bear their knowing.
“Sarla,” Erik called to her again, more of an edge on his voice now. “You will come to my sleeping chamber now.”
It had always been his sleeping chamber, never theirs. Thus it was now with Malverne. Since his father had died, Malverne was his and he enjoyed saying it aloud, for she’d heard him saying it, savoring the taste of it on his tongue. Now his parents’ sleeping chamber was his. She supposed Merrik would take his former sleeping chamber, but as yet he’d said nothing about it. Probably it hadn’t even occurred to him, for he was so immersed in shock and in grief. As for her, she was here only because she was his wife and she doubted he would send her away. For what reason? She thought of her parents’ farmstead, not too far to the north of Vestfold, and shuddered. She saw her father, his wide leather belt wrapped around his hand, saw her mother bowed, her back naked, saw the belt come down again and again, saw her mother fall and lie huddled on the ground. She saw her father turn to her, and she saw the smile of rage on his face. She shuddered again. She preferred Erik. Besides, he had his women so he didn’t bother her all that often. Never had he struck her.
She walked slowly to him, stopping in front of him, her head still bowed.
His hand closed over her upper arm. “I have need of you tonight,” he said.
Laren watched the two of them, frowning. Taby said, “Merrik’s father and mother are dead, just like ours. He is very sad, Laren.”
“Aye, he is. He was so excited about seeing them again.” She remembered the strange feelings he’d had and wondered at it.
She set about unfolding the blankets and arranging them on the packed earthen floor. She looked up, but Taby had left her. She saw him ease between the great oak doors of the longhouse. She started to call after him, but saw that many of the Malverne people were wrapped in their blankets on the benches and the floor. She rose instead and followed him.
Taby saw Merrik standing near the palisade wall, utterly silent and unmoving. He was looking upward at the brilliant display of stars overhead. It was very quiet. The huge expanse of water below, the tree-covered mountains on the opposite side of the fjord, all was silent, eerily so.
“I’m sorry they died,” Taby said to the big man who towered over him, the man he trusted more than anyone he’d ever known in his short life, other than his sister.
Merrik turned to look down at the child. Words clogged in his throat. He knew his cheeks were wet but he didn’t care. His grief was deep and his pain at his loss deeper.
“I don’t remember my mother and father,” Taby said after a moment. “I was too young when they died, but Laren tells me about them sometimes. She tells very good stories.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes she cries, just like you’re doing. I ask her why and she says that the memories of them are so very sharp and sweet that crying makes her almost feel them and taste them again. Sometimes I don’t understand what she means.”
Ah, but Merrik did. He leaned down and lifted Taby into his arms. He carried him to an oak tree that was probably as old as the cliffs that the fjord had cut through below and eased down, leaning back against the trunk. He settled the boy against his chest. He began to rub Taby’s back in wide, soothing circles.
He said quietly, his voice deep and low, “I am lucky, for I grew to manhood with my parents. But that makes their passing that much more difficult, for I knew them first as parents, then as a man and a woman I could trust beyond life itself, and as my dearest friends. My father was a very proud man, but he was a man who loved his children, a man who loved his wife dearly, a man who would never act unfairly or hurt another out of anger.”
“He is like you,” Taby said, settling in against Merrik’s shoulder.
Merrik smiled and lightly kissed the top of Taby’s head. “To be like my father would be a great accomplishment,” he said. “You would have loved my mother, Taby. All children flocked to her and she gave them all equal measures of love and attention. She was warm and strong and my father never tried to make her into a submissive female.”
“She sounds like Laren.”
That made him frown. “Hardly. My mother was very different from your sister. She had not your sister’s pride, her vanity, her arrogance.” He remembered telling Laren that his mother was a warrior one minute and gentle as a child the next. He frowned more deeply.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Taby said. “Laren is my sister. She would kill to save me. She would die to save me too.”
“That may be true,” Merrik said. He didn’t want to speak of Laren. She was only important because she was Taby’s sister. He didn’t want her to be important in any other way. He thought of her throwing herself against him at Kaupang simply because he’d bought clothing for both Cleve and Taby. He clearly remembered the feel of her, the touch of her warm breath on his cheek. He said now, “I must leave Malverne soon, for now it is my brother’s home, and he and Sarla will have children, surely, and it is not large enough for both of us. Aye, I had thought of it before, thought that I must leave soon and build my own house, farm my own land. My other brother, Rorik, owns an entire island off the coast of East Anglia called Hawkfell Island. It’s a beautiful place and it is his alone. I must make my own way as he did. What do you think, Taby?”
Taby was asleep.
Laren said quietly, stepping into his line of vision, “A man must be his own master, tread on ground that is his alone, farm land where he spreads his own grain and tends and reaps it.”
Merrik was silent for a moment. He was taken off guard, and he didn’t like it. She’d come upon them, silent as a shadow, and overheard him. He didn’t like that, for he’d also been thinking of her, and he didn’t want her to get close to th
ose thoughts, to guess about them, perhaps. His words to Taby were really meant for himself, not for anyone else, for Taby was a child without a man’s reason. And yet she was here, coming upon him like a silent shadow, listening to him without his knowing it.
“I like it not that you hide yourself and listen to words not meant for your ears. It is true, though, and I will repeat it to your face: your pride is overweening. You are as arrogant as a warrior, which is absurd. Your belief in your own value is more than a female’s should be.”
She only shrugged. “I had not heard you say that, but if that is what you believe, why then there is little I can do about it.”
He sighed, wishing he’d not spoken. “Does your leg pain you?”
“Not so much now. The cream is wondrous.”
“There won’t be more, for my mother is dead. Perhaps she taught Sarla how to make it. We will see.” He stared off into the nothingness beyond her, and thought, first she is starved then beaten and then burned. His anger at her died. Her damned pride and arrogance had brought her through it; she’d survived because of it. Aye, he thought, that part of her was like his mother, or more like his sister-in-law Mirana, Rorik’s wife, perhaps, a woman he’d hated at first, for he saw her tainted and befouled with a villain’s blood as had his parents. He’d distrusted her, feared for his brother. Ah, but she’d been strong and loyal and as stubborn as his brother.
He sighed now, saying, “I hate the suddenness of death. The finality of it. To die in battle—a man is ready for that, at least he is in his heart, if not fully in his mind, because he knows that if he falls, he will go to Valhalla and live there for all eternity. But to be felled by an illness that is unexpected, to be helpless against it, to know there is nothing you can do, that is frightening. It strips a man of dignity, of honor.”
Her voice was hard, as was the line of her mouth. “That is life. Honor and dignity have nothing to do with death. I see being cleaved into two parts in battle as no more a virtue than being struck down by an illness or an assassin’s knife. There is so much death in life that soon you cannot think of one without the other. Death is always riding on your shoulder. Always. It all ends in the same thing. You are no more.”